-r 


ARROWS  IN  THE  GALE 


BY 


ARTURO   GIOVANNITTI 


Introduction  by 

HELEN  KELLER 


H1LLACRE  BOOKHOUSE 

RIVERSIDE,  CONNECTICUT 

MCMXIV 


OL 


Copyright,  1914 

By  Frederick  C.  Bursch 

Printed  at  Hillacre 


TO  CAROLINA 


CONTENTS 

Page 
Introduction  by  Helen  Keller  ------       9 

Ex  Voto     ---  ___-_-     -     17 

Proem    -  -------     18 

The  Prisoners'  Bench  --------20 

The  Walker   -     -          --------     2i 

The  Thinker— On  Rodin's  Statue  -     -     -     -     28 

The  Stranger  at  the  Gate      ------31 

To  a  Bench  in  Mulberry  Park     -----     35 

Out  of  the  Mouth  of  Babes     ------     38 

The  B.um  --          ---------     40 

The  Magdalene        ---------44 

The  Praise  of  Spring  --------     46 

"Sing  Me  to  Sleep  _"--------     55 

Utopia  -------------56 

The  Well  of  the  Gods  -          ------     58 

The  Last   Nickel     ---------61 

The  Republic      ----------65 

The  Funeral  -----------68 

To  Joseph  J.  Ettor  ---------     70 

The  Sermon  on  the  Common     -----     73 

The  Peaceful  Hour      --------80 

Samnite  Cradle-Song  --------82 

The  Cage  -  --------     88 

The  Last  Oracle      ---------    gg 

To  the  One  Who  Waits    -------    108 


INTRODUCTION 

I  am  glad  of  this  opportunity  to  commend  to 
the  public  the  poems  of  my  dear  friend  and  com 
rade,  Arturo  Giovannitti. 

No  one  who  loves  poetry  can  fail  to  recognize 
the  greatness  of  Giovannitti's  expression  or  to 
be  glad  of  any  force  that  has  produced  such  noble 
verse.  He  has  tried  to  render  his  ideas  of  the 
world  he  lives  in.  As  a  poet  he  is  to  be  judged 
by  his  success  in  rendering  these  ideas  in  verse, 
and  not  by  his  relations  to  Syndicalism  or  Social 
ism  or  any  other  movement  in  which  he  happens 
to  be  active.  The  laws  of  poetic  beauty  and 
power,  not  one's  beliefs  about  the  economic 
world,  determine  the  excellence  of  his  work. 

Giovannitti's  poetry  has  been  called  "rashly 
materialistic. "  So  is  Homer.  So  is  Virgil.  So  is 
Dante.  So  is  Shakespeare.  So  is  Shelley.  So  are 
allegories  and  parables.  So  are  the  prophecies  of 
Isaiah.  So  is  the  description  of  the  New  Jerusalem 
descending  out  of  Heaven,  at  once  most  spirit- 
illumined  and  most  closely  linked  with  the  nat 
ural  needs,  the  sensuous  pleasures  and  desires  of 
man!  When  a  poet  speaks  he  covers  the  bare 
facts  of  life  with  a  shimmering  cloth  of  gold. 
He  spiritualizes  all  that  men  see,  feel,  think,  suf 
fer,  learn  of  life's  heights  and  depths.  Giovan 
nitti's  poetry  is  the  spiritualization  of  a  lofty 
dream  that  he  seeks  to  realize — the  establish- 


mcnt  of  love  and  brotherhood  and  social  justice 
for  every  man  and  woman  upon  earth.  If  you 
insist  on  finding  in  his  glorious  imaginings  some 
thing  definite,  something  translatable  into  prose, 
it  is  there;  it  is  the  struggle  of  a  new  world 
against  the  old  world,  of  ideas  against  customs 
blindly  obeyed,  of  young  truth  against  the  an 
tiquity  of  outworn  creeds  and  musty  traditions. 
Giovannitti  is,  like  Shelley,  a  poet  of  revolt 
against  the  cruelty,  the  poverty,  the  ignorance 
which  too  many  of  us  accept  in  blind  content. 
His  is  the  poetry  of  humane  humanity,  of  exul 
tation  in  everything  new,  vigorous,  wholesome, 
manly,  and  of  uncompromising  hatred  of  what 
is  bestial,  mean,  sordid  and  degrading.  It  is  an 
outgrowth  of  noble  ideals,  aspirations  and  hopes 
for  a  true  democracy  that  are  being  proclaimed 
from  one  end  of  the  world  to  the  other.  Rashly 
materialistic,  indeed! 

Behind  Arturo  Giovannitti  stand  the  poets, 
prophets,  wise  men  and  patriots  of  Italy.  Into 
him  have  been  poured  the  fire  and  courage  of  a 
proud,  energetic  people. 

He  was  born  January  7,  1884,  at  Ripabottoni 
f  in  Southern  Italy.    He  was  educated  at  the  lycee 
\  in  Campobasso.    At  the  age  of  seventeen  he  came 
j  to  America,  which  he  had  been  taught  to  regard 
as  a  better,  freer  country  than  his  own.     As  he 
said  in  his  address  before  the  jury  in  Salem,  he 
had  "learned  upon  the  knees  of  his  mother  and 
his  father  to  reverence  with  tears  in  his  eyes  the 
name  of  a  republic."    Jrlis  first,  years  in  America 
were  years  of,  disillusion  and  failure.    Heuworked 
in  the  coal  mines  of  Pennsylvania,  where  he  saw 
the  misery  and  degradation  of  many  of  the  for 
eigners  who  come  here,  animated  by  the  same^ 

10 


love  for  democracy  and  hope  for  opportunity 
that  Had  filled  his  heart.  He  studied  for  a  while 
in  several  theological  schools.  Then  he  took  up 
'journalistic  work  in  New  York.  About  nine 
-^ears  ago  he  joined  the  Socialist  movement  and 
later  became  the  editor  of  the  Italian  revolu 
tionary  journal,  II  Proletario.  Pent  in  by  cold 
and  poverty  and  still  colder  tradition,  he  caught 
the  glow  of  the  radiance  of  a  redeemed  humanity; 
he  bulwarked  himself  in  his  enthusiasm  and  in  the 
determination  that  all  men  shall  have  their  share 
in  the  bounty  of  the  earth,  shall  know  the  splen 
dors  and  ecstasies  of  life. 

His  poetry  is  inspired  by  this  consecration  to 
a  glorious  cause.  It  is  "only  living  aloud  his 
work,  a  singing  with  his  hand."  Many  readers 
of  it  will  find  themselves  face  to  face  with  a  baf 
fling  personality,  with  a  poet  quite  unlike  any 
Bother.  His  subjects  will  puzzle  them,  and  they 
cannot  be  fully  understood  without  some  knowl 
edge  of  the  forces  which  have  given  rise  to  it. 
Giovannitti's  main  theme  is  the  class  war,  the  im 
mediate  battleground  of  which  is  what  we  call 
labor  troubles,  the  strike,  the  lock-out,  the  visible 
clash  between  employer  and  employed.  That 
battlefield  has  recently  produced  a  new  type  of 
militant  workman,  the  revolutionary  unionist,  the 
Syndicalist  as  he  is  called  in  most  countries,  the 
member  of  the  Industrial  Workers  of  the  World 
as  we  have  come  to  know  him  in  America.  Their 
business  to-day  is  to  help  the  workers  to  win 
strikes,  that  is,  to  force  one  and  another  conces 
sion  from  the  masters.  Their  aim  to-morrow  is 
that  of  the  Socialists,  to  overthrow  the  master 
class  completely  and  win  for  all  men  the  heritage 
of  the  earth.  They  are  crusaders,  preachers  of  a 

11 


new  morality  whose  cardinal  virtue  is  Solidarity, 
a  word  scarcely  comprehended  by  those  who  have 
no  intimate  knowledge  of  the  militant  proleta 
riat.  Among  the  heralds  who  bear  the  banner 
with  this  strange  new  device,  Solidarity,  is 
Arturo  Giovannitti. 

Jrle  is  a  poet,  a  better  poet  than  has  come  out 
of  the  privileged  classes  of  America  in  our  day. 
He  is  also  a  practical  strike-leader  and  organizer. 
For  his  activities  during  the  Lawrence  strike  he. 
spent  several  months  in  jail.  The  crime  with 
which  he  was  charged  was,  of  course,  a  legal 
fiction  devised  by  the  mill  owners  and  their 
agents.  Giovannitti's  real  crime  was  helping  the 
strikers  in  their  assault  on  the  pocketbooks  of 
the  owners.  Of  that  crime  Giovannitti  and  all 
Syndicalists,  Industrial  Workers  and  militant 
Socialists  are  proudly  guilty.  For  it  they  will  be 
punished,  and  they  expect  to  be  punished,  until 
the  day  when  they  are  stronger  than  the  powers 
that  administer  the  punishment.  They  ask  no 
quarter  and  they  give  none.  They  respect  the  law 
only  as  a  soldier  respects  an  enemy.  In  the  pres 
ence  of  any  law  they  ask  only  whether  it  is  ex 
pedient — good  tactics — to  obey  it  or  break  it. 
They  know  that  the  laws  are  for  the  most  part 
made  by  and  for  the  possessing  classes,  and  that 
in  a  contest  with  the  workers  the  bosses  do  not 
respect  the  laws,  but  quite  shamelessly  break 
them.  When  workers  go  on  strike  for  better 
conditions,  the  police  disperse  their  meetings, 
club  and  imprison  them  and  even  drive  the  lead 
ers  out  of  town.  It  is  natural  that  they  should 
do  this,  for  a  strike  is  not  a  legal  game;  it  is  a 
war,  and  both  sides  use  any  weapon  that  they 
can  lay  their  hands  on.  The  difference  is  that  the 

12 


employers  keep  up  the  hypocritical  fiction  of  law 
and  order;  while  the  revolutionary  unionists,  who 
are  either  more  honest  or  more  clear-sighted, 
point  out  that  law  and  order  do  not  exist  in  a 
world  which  is  at  war.  From  every  platform  and 
in  every  pamphlet  they  boldly  declare  that  capi 
talist  morality  is  hostile  to  the  interests  of  the 
workers  and  is  therefore  from  the  worker's  point 
of  view  immoral.  They  preach  a  new  morality 
according  to  which  the  basest  crime  is  "scab 
bing,"  and  that,  as  we  know,  is  regarded  as  a 
virtue  by  the  upper  classes.  They  make  their 
own  laws  in  accordance  with  the  needs  of  their 
class,  just  as  throughout  history  other  classes 
have  done;  and  they  treat  statutes,  ordinances 
and  injunctions  as  so  many  orders  from  the 
enemy. 

No  one  has  ever  given  me  a  good  reason  why 
we  should  obey  unjust  laws.  But  the  reason  why 
we  should  resist  them  is  obvious.  Our  resistance 
proves  our  manhood  and  our  womanhood.  The 
dignity  of  human  nature  compels  us  to  resist 
what  we  believe  to  be  wrong  and  a  stumbling- 
block  to  our  fellowmen.  When  a  government 
puts  forth  its  strength  on  the  side  of  injustice  it 
is  foredoomed  to  fail.  When  it  depends  for  "law 
and  order"  upon  the  militia  and  the  police,  its 
mission  in  the  world  is  nearly  finished.  We  be 
lieve,  at  least  we  hope,  that  our  capitalist  govern 
ment  is  near  its  end;  we  wish  to  hasten  its  end; 
the  only  question  is  how.  The  various  answers 
to  that  question  constitute  the  differences  be 
tween  the  several  types  or  groups  of  socialists. 
The  capitalist  press  is  anxious  to  prove  how  in 
significant  is  this  group  of  agitators — a  handful 
of  discontents,  mostly  ignorant  foreigners. 

13 


A  handful  of  discontents?  When  in  the  his 
tory  of  the  world  has  the  vanguard  been  in  the 
majority?  Never.  People  who  are  ready  to  de 
vote  their  lives  to  the  oppressed,  hoping  for  no 
return  but  a  good  conscience,  are  never  found  in 
large  numbers  at  a  given  time  and  place.  Most 
men  have  other  affairs  to  attend  to  than  their 
fellowmen's  prosperity  and  happiness.  It  is  not 
a  question  of  numbers  at  first,  but  the  spirit 
which  animates  the  "handful."  But  why  so  per 
sistently  dodge  the  truth?  Why  not  at  least  face 
the  fact  that  a  million  of  the  people  of  the  United 
States  would  like  to  see  the  present  government 
changed?  Why  not  admit  frankly  that  the  creed 
of  Socialism  is  held  by  thirty  million  people  in 
the  civilized  world,  and  is  preached  and  written 
\Jn  sixty  languages?  The  foe — if  so  you  regard 
the  emancipation  of  man  from  cruel  conditions — 
is  in  your  midst.  Scarcely  a  hamlet,  nay,  even 
a  house,  will  be  found  where  he  does  not  lurk. 
Socialism  is  here  to  stay.  That  is,  the  idea  is 
here;  socialist  society  has  not  yet  arrived.  Let 
anyone  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  investigate, 
and  he  will  find  that  this  idea  is  a  very  vigorous 
plant,  rooted  securely  in  the  hearts  of  men,  where 
it  does  not  depend  upon  the  press  for  watering 
and  cultivating.  Ideas  so  planted  will  bear  fruit 
inevitably.  At  this  very  hour  the  seeds  are  being 
scattered  far  and  wide,  and  the  power  does  not 
exist  in  the  world  which  can  prevent  their  ger 
mination.  It  is  a  plant  which  it  has  taken  ages 
to  bring  to  flower.  To  its  nourishment  have  gone 
the  best,  the  finest,  the  noblest  aspirations  of 
humanity. 

Such  is  the  wonderful  world  movement  out  of 
which  Arturo  Giovannitti  is  flashing  his  message 

14 


of  hope  to  the  human  race.  It  is  a  movement 
great  in  its  material  and  spiritual  possibilities. 
It  is  great,  very  great  in  the  diversity  and  sweep 
|of  its  issues.  It  is  supremely  great  in  the  sym 
pathy,  mutual  helpfulness  and  limitless  energy 
|of  those  who  are  pushing  it  forward.  It  is  ap 
pealing,  it  is  beautiful  in  the  whole-hearted  ef- 
iforts  to  redeem  to  light,  hope,  strength  and  joy 
the  millions  upon  whom  all  the  world's  burden 
of  anguish  and  toil  has  fallen  so  pitilessly  through 
Ithe  centuries. 

Giovannitti's  poetry  is  an  effort  to  express! 
la  multitude  of  men  who  are  lost  in  an  immensity 
of  silence,  swallowed  up  in  meaningless  dark- 
[ness.  With  burning  words  he  makes  us  feel  the 
presence  of  the  toilers  hidden  behind  tenement 
walls,  behind  the  machinery  they  guide.  He 
turns  the  full  light  of  his  intense,  vivid  intelli 
gence  upon  the  worn  face  of  the  workers  who 
put  every  breath  and  nerve  into  the  struggle  for 
existence,  who  give  every  hour  and  exhaust 
|every  faculty  that  others  may  live.  He  finds 
voice  for  his  message  in  the  sighs,  the  dumb 
loves  and  hopes,  the  agonies  and  thwartings  of 
|tnen  who  are  bowed  beneath  burdens  and  broken 
•y  the  monster  hands  of  machines,  men  who  spin 
nd  weave  and  cause  the  earth  to  yield  its  glad 
increase,  men  from  whose  unheeded  stroke  up- 
roll  domes  and  spires,  till  the  eyes  of  men  and 
ngels  behold  among  the  clouds  the  work  of  their 
patient  hands!  But  the  sense  of  divine  things 
to  be  goes  thrilling  through  all  his  verses.  It 
jis  as  unmistakable  as  the  smell  of  spring  in  April 
jair,  and  just  as  pervasive,  just  as  elemental.  He 
elcomes  the  combat — not  a  combat  that  shall 
[rend  the  world  apart,  but  one  which  shall  bring 

15 


it  together  in  a  universal  sunshine  of  peace.  "The 
battle  has  gone  up  on  to  higher  ground  and  into 
higher  light;  the  battle  is  above  the  clouds."  In 
the  irregular  lines  of  such  poems  as  "The  Cage" 
there  is  the  tramp  of  a  vast,  onrushing  host.  It 
is  the  high-tide  of  the  Revolution.  Onward  it 
sweeps  through  the  rent  temples  of  the  past, 
flooding  the  courts  of  dethroned  state,  thunder 
ing  through  the  market-place  where  men  buy 
and  sell  the  lives  and  souls  of  their  fellow  men. 
Face  the  wreckage,  you  who  can,  and  behold 
upon  the  tumultuous  waves  a  new  ship  of  state. 
Fast  through  the  night  of  our  ignorance  and 
our  fear  it  speeds  on  to  the  calm,  sunlit  shores 
of  the  desired  land. 

I  am  sure  this  book  will  go  on  its  way  thrill 
ing  to  new  courage  those  who  fight  for  freedom. 
It  will  set  human  hearts  beating  for  something 
better.  It  will  move  some  to  think  and  keep  them 
glad  that  they  thought.  Its  echoes  caught  from 
a  noble  life,  a  noble  fight  will 

"roll  from  soul  to  soul 
And  grow  forever  and  forever." 

HELEN  KELLER. 


16 


EX   VOTO 

Hail,  full  of  grace,  with  Thee  my  love  abides ! 
For  thy  faith  which  in  me  doth  live  and  rest, 
Blest  be  thy  name  forevermore  and  blest 
Be  Thou  amongst  the  maidens  and  the  brides. 

Athwart  the  chasm  that  hope  and  fear  divides 
'Twas  Thou,  the  dream  unseen,  that  I  caressed, 
Farther  than  Thee  I  have  no  goal  to  quest 
But  what  thy  will  for  thine  own  joy  provides. 

Bid  me,  then,  gather  in  thy  whispered  name, 
As  in  a  conjured  charm,  all  my  war  cries 
And  slay  the  monster  that  our  pinions  grips. 

Nobler  than  on  my  brow  the  wreath  of  fame, 
Holier  than  heaven's  radiance  in  mine  eyes 
Is  thy  young  kiss  of  love  upon  my  lips. 


PROEM 

These  are  but  songs — they're  not  a  creed 

They  are  not  meant  to  lift  or  save, 
They  won't  appeal  or  intercede 

For  any  fool  or  any  knave; 
They  hold  no  covenant  or  pledge 

For  him  who  dares  no  foe  assail: 
They  are  the  blows  of  my  own  sledge 

Against  the  walls  of  my  own  jail. 


I  stand  a  watch  at  the  van  post 

Of  my  own  war  I'm  captain  of; 
No  holy  fire  of  pentecost 

Can  force  on  me  a  Saviour's  love. 
I  fight  alone  and  win  or  sink, 

I  need  no  one  to  make  me  free, 
I  want  no  Jesus  Christ  to  think 

That  he  could  ever  die  for  me. 


If  what  I  have  I  give,  you  can 

Be  sure  I  lay  no  heavenly  store, 
And  what  I  take  from  any  man 

I  have  no  thankful  feeling  for. 
All  that  you  worship,  fear  and  trust 

I  kick  into  the  sewer's  maw 
And  fling  my  shaft  and  my  disgust 

Against  your  gospel  and  your  law. 

18 


Oh,  yes,  I  know  the  firing  line 

Outstretches  far  beyond  my  arms, 
I  know  this  muffled  song  of  mine 

Is  but  one  shout  of  many  alarms; 
But  though  along  the  battle  range 

I  press  with  many  in  one  pursuit, 
I  have  my  personal  revenge, 

My  private  enemy  to  shoot. 

To  them,  the  hosts  of  every  land, 

The  nameless  army  of  the  strong 
Who  make  Humanity's  last  stand 

Against  the  battlements  of  wrong, 
No  worthy  anthem  can  attune 

My  raucous  buccina.     Let  him, 
The  greater  bard  that  shall  come  soon, 

Sing  through  the  cannon  mouth  their 
hymn. 

To  them,  for  theirs  and  for  my  sake, 

He'll  speak  the  words  I  never  spoke, 
And  if  he  speak  them,  let  him  take 

The  laurel  wreath,  the  crown  of  oak. 
For  what  they  win  is  theirs  alone, 

Of  their  reward  I  ask  no  part, 
I  only  claim  three  things  my  own: 

My  dream,  my  death  and  my  sweetheart. 

But  if  they  want  my  song — 'tis  theirs. 

For  though  it  may  not  stir  their  souls, 
Though  feebler  than  their  bugle  blares, 

Their  drum  taps  and  their  tocsin  tolls, 
Still  may  my  song,  before  the  sun's 

Reveille,  speed  the  hours  that  tire, 
While  they  are  cleaning  up  their  guns 

Around  the  cheery  bivouac  fire. 

19 


THE   PRISONER'S   BENCH 

Through   here    all   wrecks    of   the   tempestuous 
mains 

Of  life  have  washed  away  the  tides  of  time. 
Tatters  of  flesh  and  souls,  furies  and  pains, 

Horrors  and  passions  awful  or  sublime, 
All  passed  here  to  their  doom.    Nothing  remains 

Of  all  the  tasteless  dregs  of  sin  and  crime 
But  stains  of  tears,  and  stains  of  blood  and  stains 

Of  the  inn's  vomit  and  the  brothel's  grime. 

And  now  we,  too,  must  sit  here,  Joe.    Don't  dust 
These  boards  on  which  our  wretched  brothers  fell, 
They  are  clean,  there's  no  reason  for  disgust. 
For  the  fat  millionaire's  revolting  stench 
Is  not  here,  nor  the  preacher's  saintly  smell, 
And  the  judge  never  sat  upon  this  bench. 


20 


THE    WALKER 

I  HEAR  footsteps  over  my  head  all  night. 

They  come  and  tjiey  go.  Again  they  come  and 
they  go  all  night. 

They^  come  one  eternity  in  four,  paces  and  they 
go  one  eternity  in  four  paces,  and  between  the 
coming  and  the  going  there  is  Silence  and 
the  Night  and  the  Infinite. 

For  infinite  are  the  nine  feet  of  a  prison  cell,  and 
endless  is  the  march  of  him  who  walks  be 
tween  the  yellow  brick  wall  and  the  red  iron 
gate,  thinking  things  that  cannot  be  chained 
and  cannot  be  locked,  but  that  wander  far 
away  in  the  sunlit  world,  each  in  a  wild  pil 
grimage  after  a  destined  goal. 
*  *  * 

Throughout  the  restless  night  I  hear  the  foot 
steps  over  my  head. 

Who  walks?  I  know  not.  It  is  the  phantom  of 
the  jail,  the  sleepless  brain,  a  man,  the  man, 
the  Walker. 

One-two-three-four:  four  paces  and  the  wall. 

One-two-three-four:  four  paces  and  the  iron  gate. 

He  has  measured  his  space,  he  has  measured  it 
accurately,  scrupulously,  minutely,  as  the 
hangman  measures  the  rope  and  the  grave- 
digger  the  coffin — so  many  feet,  so  many 
inches,  so  many  fractions  of  an  inch  for  each 
of  the  four  paces. 

21 


One-two-three-four.  Each  step  sounds  heavy 
and  hollow  over  my  head,  and  the  echo  of 
each  step  sounds  hollow  within  my  head  as 
I  count  them  in  suspense  and  in  dread  that 
once,  perhaps,  in  the  endless  walk,  there  may 
be  five  steps  instead  of  four  between  the  yel 
low  brick  wall  and  the  red  iron  gate. 

But  he  has  measured  the  space  so  accurately,  so 
scrupulously,  so  minutely  that  nothing  breaks 
the  grave  rhythm  of  the  slow,  fantastic 

march. 

*  *         * 

When  all  are  asleep  (and  who  knows  but  I  when 
all  sleep?)  three  things  are  still  awake  in  the 
night:  the  Walker,  my  heart  and  the  old  clock 
which  has  the  soul  of  a  fiend — for  never,  since 
a  coarse  hand  with  red  hair  on  its  fingers 
swung  for  the  first  time  the  pendulum  in  the 
jail,  has  the  old  clock  tick-tocked  a  full  hour 
of  joy. 

Yet  the  old  clock  which  marks  everything,  and 
records  everything,  and  to  everything  tolls 
the  death  knell,  the  wise  old  clock  that  knows 
everything,  does  not  know  the  number  of  the 
footsteps  of  the  Walker,  nor  the  throbs  of 
my  heart. 

For  not  for  the  Walker,  nor  for  my  heart  is  there 
a  second,  a  minute,  an  hour  or  anything  that 
is  in  the  old  clock — there  is  nothing  but  the 
night,  the  sleepless  night,  the  watchful,  wist 
ful  night,  and  footsteps  that  go,  and  footsteps 
that  come  and  the  wild,  tumultuous  beatings 
that  trail  after  them  forever. 

*  *         * 

All  the  sounds  of  the  living  beings  and  inani- 

22 


mate  things,  and  all  the  voices  and  all  the 
noises  of  the  night  I  have  heard  in  my  wist 
ful  vigil. 

I  have  heard  the  moans  of  him  who  bewails  a 
thing  that  is  dead  and  the  sighs  of  him  who 
tries  to  smother  a  thing  that  will  not  die; 

I  have  heard  the  stifled  sobs  of  the  one  who  weeps 
with  his  head  under  the  coarse  blanket,  and 
the  whisperings  of  the  one  who  prays  with 
his  forehead  on  the  hard,  cold  stone  of  the 
floor; 

I  have  heard  him  who  laughs  the  shrill,  sinister 
laugh  of  folly  at  the  horror  rampant  on  the 
yellow  wall  and  at  the  red  eyes  of  the  night 
mare  glaring  through  the  iron  bars; 

I  have  heard  in  the  sudden  icy  silence  him  who 
coughs  a  dry,  ringing  cough,  and  wished  mad 
ly  that  his  throat  would  not  rattle  so  and  that 
he  would  not  spit  on  the  floor,  for  no  sound 
was  more  atrocious  than  that  of  his  sputum 
upon  the  floor; 

I  have  heard  him  who  swears  fearsome  oaths 
which  I  listen  to  in  reverence  and  awe,  for 
they  are  holier  than  the  virgin's  prayer; 

And  I  have  heard,  most  terrible  of  all,  the  silence 
of  two  hundred  brains  all  possessed  by  one 
single,  relentless,  unforgiving,  desperate 
thought. 

All  this  have  I  heard  in  the  watchful  night, 

And  the   murmur  of  the   wind  beyond   the 

walls, 

And  the  tolls  of  a  distant  bell, 
And  the  woeful  dirge  of  the  rain, 

And  the  remotest  echoes  of  the  sorrowful  city 

And  the  terrible  beatings,   wild  beatings,  mad 

23 


beatings  of  the  One  Heart  which  is  nearest 

to  my  heart. 

All  this  have  I  heard  in  the  still  night; 
But  nothing  is  louder,  harder,  drearier,  mightier, 

more  awful  than  the  footsteps  I  hear  over 

my  head  all  night. 

*         *         * 

Yet  fearsome  and  terrible  are  all  the  footsteps  of 
men  upon  the  earth,  for  they  either  descend 
or  climb. 

Thy  descend  from  little  mounds  and  high  peaks 
and  lofty  altitudes,  through  wide  roads  and 
narrow  paths,  down  noble  marble  stairs  and 
creaky  stairs  of  wood — and  some  go  down  to 
the  cellar,  and  some  to  the  grave,  and  some 
down  to  the  pits  of  shame  and  infamy,,  and 
still  some  to  the  glory  of  an  unfathomable 
abyss  where  there  is  nothing  but  the  staring 
white,  stony  eyeballs  of  Destiny. 

And  again  other  footsteps  climb.  They  climb  to 
life  and  to  love,  to  fame,  to  power,  to  vanity, 
to  truth,  to  glory  and  to  the  scaffold — to 
everything  but  Freedom  and  the  Ideal. 

And  they  all  climb  the  same  roads  and  the  same 
stairs  others  go  down;  for  never,  since  man 
began  to  think  how  to  overcome  and  over 
pass  man,  have  other  roads  and  other  stairs 
been  found. 

They  descend  and  they  climb,  the  fearful  foot 
steps  of  men,  and  some  limp,  some  drag,  some 
speed,  some  trot,  some  run — they  are  quiet, 
slow,  noisy,  brisk,  quick,  feverish,  mad,  and 
most  awful  is  their  cadence  to  the  ears  of  the 
one  who  stands  still. 

But  of  all  the  footsteps  of  men  that  either  de- 

24 


scend  or  climb,  no  footsteps  are  so  fearsome 
and  terrible  as  those  that  go  straight  on  the 
dead  level  of  a  prison  floor,  from  a  yellow 
stone  wall  to  a  red  iron  gate. 

All  through  the  night  he  walks  and  he  thinks. 
Is  it  more  frightful  because  he  walks  and  his 
footsteps  sound  hollow  over  my  head,  or  be 
cause  he  thinks  and  speaks  not  his  thoughts? 

But  does  he  think?  Why  should  he  think?  Do 
I  think?  I  only  hear  the  footsteps  and  count 
them.  Four  steps  and  the  wall.  Four  steps 
and  the  gate.  But  beyond?  Beyond?  Where 
goes  he  beyond  the  gate  and  the  wall? 

He  goes  not  beyond.  His  thought  breaks  there 
on  the  iron  gate.  Perhaps  it  breaks  like  a 
wave  of  rage,  perhaps  like  a  sudden  flow  of 
hope,  but  it  always  returns  to  beat  the  wall 
like  a  billow  of  helplessness  and  despair. 

He  walks  to  and  fro  within  the  narrow  whirlpit 
of  this  ever  storming  and  furious  thought. 
Only  one  thought — constant,  fixed,  immov 
able,  sinister,  without  power  and  without 
voice. 

A  thought  of  madness,  frenzy,  agony  and  despair, 
a  hell-brewed  thought,  for  it  is  a  natural 
thought.  All  things  natural  are  things  im 
possible  while  there  are  jails  in  the  world — 
bread,  work,  happiness,  peace,  love. 

But  he  thinks  not  of  this.  As  he  walks  he  thinks 
of  the  most  superhuman,  the  most  unattain 
able,  the  most  impossible  thing  in  the  world: 

He  thinks  of  a  small  brass  key  that  turns  just 

25 


half  around  and  throws  open  the  red  iron 

gate. 

*         *         * 

That  is  all  the  Walker  thinks,  as  he  walks 
throughout  the  night. 

And  that  is  what  two  hundred  minds  drowned  in 
the  darkness  and  the  silence  of  the  night  think, 
and  that  is  also  what  I  think. 

Wonderful  is  the  supreme  wisdom  of  the  jail  that 
makes  all  think  the  same  thought.  Marvel 
ous  is  the  providence  of  the  law  that  equalizes 
all,  even  in  mind  and  sentiment.  Fallen  is 
the  last  barrier  of  privilege,  the  aristocracy 
of  the  intellect.  The  democracy  of  reason 
has  leveled  all  the  two  hundred  minds  to  the 
common  surface  of  the  same  thought. 

I,  who  have  never  killed,  think  like  the  murderer; 

I,  who  have  never  stolen,  reason  like  the  thief; 

I  think,  reason,  wish,  hope,  doubt,  wait  like  the 
hired  assassin,  the  embezzler,  the  forger,  the 
counterfeiter,  the  incestuous,  the  raper,  the 
drunkard,  the  prostitute,  the  pimp,  I,  I  who 
used  to  think  of  love  and  life  and  flowers  and 
song  and  beauty  and  the  ideal. 

A  little  key,  a  little  key  as  little  as  my  little  finger, 
a  little  key  of  shining  brass. 

All  my  ideas,  my  thoughts,  my  dreams  are  con 
gealed  in  a  little  key  of  shiny  brass. 

All  my  brain,  all  my  soul,  all  the  suddenly  surging 
latent  powers  of  my  deepest  life  are  in  the 
pocket  of  a  white-haired  man  dressed  in  blue. 

He  is  great,  powerful,  formidable,  the  man  with 
the  white  hair,  for  he  has  in  his  pocket  the 
mighty  talisman  which  makes  one  man  cry, 
and  one  man  pray,  and  one  laugh,  and  one 

26 


cough,  and  one  walk,  and  all  keep  awake  and 
listen  and  think  the  same  maddening  thought. 

Greater  than  all  men  is  the  man  with  the  white 
hair  and  the  small  brass  key,  for  no  other 
man  in  the  world  could  compel  two  hundred 
men  to  think  for  so  long  the  same  thought. 
Surely  when  the  light  breaks  I  will  write  a 
hymn  unto  him  which  shall  hail  him  greater 
than  Mohammed  and  Arbues  and  Torque- 
mada  and  Mesmer,  and  all  the  other  masters 
of  other  men's  thoughts.  I  shall  call  him  Al 
mighty,  for  he  holds  everything  of  all  and  of 
me  in  a  little  brass  key  in  his  pocket. 

Everything  of  me  he  holds  but  the  branding  iron 
of  contempt  and  the  claymore  of  hatred  for  the 
monstrous  cabala  that  can  make  the  apostle 
and  the  murderer,  the  poet  and  the  procurer, 
think  of  the  same  gate,  the  same  key  and  the 
same  exit  on  the  different  sunlit  highways  of 

life. 

*         *         * 

My  brother,  do  not  walk  any  more. 

It  is  wrong  to  walk  on  a  grave.  It  is  a  sacri 
lege  to  walk  four  steps  from  the  headstone 
to  the  foot  and  four  steps  from  the  foot  to 
the  headstone. 

If  you  stop  walking,  my  brother,  no  longer  will 
this  be  a  grave,  for  you  will  give  me  back  my 
mind  that  is  chained  to  your  feet  and  the  right 
to  think  my  own  thoughts. 

I  implore  you,  my  brother,  for  I  am  weary  of  the 
long  vigil,  weary  of  counting  your  steps,  and 
heavy  with  sleep. 

Stop,  rest,  sleep,  my  brother,  for  the  dawn  is  well 
nigh  and  it  is  not  the  key  alone  that  can  throw 
open  the  gate. 

27 


THE  THINKER—  On  Rodin  s  Statue 

Aye,  think !     Since  time  and  life  began, 
Your  mind  has  only  feared  and  slept; 

Of  all  the  beasts  they  called  you  man 
Only  because  you  toiled  and  wept. 

On  all  the  ages  firmly  set, 

Lone  pillar  of  the  world  you  stood; 
Beyond  your  hunger  and  your  sweat 

You.  never  knew,  nor  understood — 

Till  now,  when  deep  into  your  soul, 
Where  it  lay  buried  and  concealed, 

At  last  your  destined  end  and  goal 
Shall  stand  emblazoned  and  revealed. 

Think,  think — unburden,  liberate 

Your  mind  from  all  its  waste  and  loss, 

Throw  down  from  it  the  age-long  weight 
Of  few  men's  feet  and  one  man's  cross. 

Behind  your  mighty  frame,  in  fright 
To  stay  you,  moan  the  dark,  dead  years. 

Heed  not  the  voices  of  the  night, 
Heed  not  the  echoes  of  your  tears. 

However  dear,  your  sorrows  rest 

Upon  you,  like  a  burial  stone. 
Upturn  it!    Rise!    Their  grave's  unblest, 

The  terrors  of  the  past  have  flown. 

28 


Its  memories  in  you  must  die, 

Its  shadows  must  depart  from  you, 

Your  doubts,  your  fears  are  all  a  lie, 
Only  this  wondrous  thought  is  true. 

Think !    If  your  brain  will  but  extend 
As  far  as  what  your  hands  have  done, 

If  but  your  reason  will  descend 

As  deep  as  where  your  feet  have  gone — 

The  walls  of  ignorance  will  fall 

That  stood  between  you  and  your  world, 

And  from  its  bloody  pedestal 

The  last  god,  Terror,  shall  be  hurled. 

Aye,  think!     While  breaks  in  you  the  dawn, 
Crouched  at  your  feet,  the  world  lies  still — 

It  has  no  power  but  your  brawn, 
It  knows  no  wisdom  but  your  will. 

Behind  your  flesh,  and  mind  and  blood 

Nothing  there  is  to  live  and  do, 
There  is  no  man,  there  is  no  god, 

There  is  not  anything  but  you. 

Think,  think!    What  every  age  and  land 

Thought  an  eternal  mystery, 
What  seers  could  never  understand 

And  saints  and  sages  could  not  see, 

From  you,  the  chained,  reviled  outcast, 
From  you  the  brute  inert  and  dumb, 

Shall,  through  your  wakened  thought  at  last, 
The  message  of  to-morrow  come. 

29 


'Twill  come,  a  dazzling  shaft  of  light, 
Of  truth,  to  save  and  to  redeem, 

And — whether  Love  or  Dynamite — 
Shall  blaze  the  pathway  to  your  dream. 


30 


THE  STRANGER  AT   THE  GATE 

THE  STRANGER  whose  sandals  were  white 
with  the  dust  of  many  roads  approached  the 
guardian  of  the  gate  on  his  way  out  of  the 
mighty  city,  whose  towers  are  loftier  than  the 
pillars  of  smoke  and  the  mountain  peaks  in 
the  sky. 

"Peace  and  plenty  be  with  thee  forever,  keeper 
of  the  gate,"  said  he,  touching  with  two  rin 
gers  of  his  right  hand  his  bowed  forehead. 

"God  walk  before  thy  feet  forevermore,  stran 
ger,"  answered  the  keeper  of  the  gate. 
"Whither  goest  thou?" 

"Wherever  men  are  and  the  highroads  lead.  For 
the  wisdom  I  seek  does  not  remain  in  one 
place.  It  beckons  and  I  follow,  keeper  of  the 
gate." 

"Hast  thou  found  any  wisdom  in  our  city, 
stranger?" 

"Aye,  much  wisdom  have  I  found  and  great 
knowledge  for  the  wayfarer  who  seeks  a  home 
to  rest  in  his  old  age.  My  home  is  farther  on 
the  road,  keeper  of  the  gate." 

"Who  told  thee  that  thy  home  is  not  in  our  city, 
stranger?" 

"The  man  ye  crucified  yesterday.  He  cried  not, 
nor  did  he  weep  nor  curse  as  such  men  do,  but 
he  smiled  and  he  smiled  and  he  looked  at  me 
strangely,  oh,  so  strangely!" 

31 


"And  what  said  he  that  thou  leavest  a  great  city 
because  of  the  words  of  a  criminal?" 

"Nay,  he  said  naught,  but  I  said  unto  myself,  in 
stead,  that  the  city  where  crucified  wrong 
doers  cry  not,  nor  weep,  nor  curse,  but  smile 
and  look  so  strangely  at  people,  is  no  place 
for  the  stranger  who  has  seen  many  lands  and 
knows  many  roads,  keeper  of  the  gate." 

"He  smiled  to  hurt  and  infuriate  us,  stranger,  for 
we  are  used  to  shrieks  and  curses.  He  was 
the  worst  offender  of  all,  as  thou  mayest  judge 
by  his  ungodly  behavior.  Not  even  death  ap 
peased  or  terrified  him." 

"Aye,  so  methought,  in  sooth.  But  prithee, 
keeper  of  the  gate,  why  did  ye  crucify  him?" 

"Knowest  thou  not  the  laws  of  this  land  which 
is  the  wealthiest  and  mightiest  under  the  sun? 
He  deserved  death." 

"Aye,  any  dead  man  deserved  death,  but  I  know 
not  for  what  reason." 

"He  did  offend  against  the  sovereignty  of  the 
people  and  the  godliness  of  our  supreme  law, 
stranger." 

"Verily,  it  is  so,  keeper  of  the  gate.  But  was  it, 
perchance,  because,  as  I  heard,  he  pitied  the 
poor  and  the  lowly?" 

"Nay,  'twas  not  for  that.  We  also  pity  them. 
Indeed  we  have  many  great  institutions  that 
shelter  the  worthy  poor." 

"Was  it,  then,  because  he  mingled  with  the  rabble 
and  flattered  it  with  strange  and  obscure 
words  such  as  right,  justice  and  the  like?" 

"Not  for  that,  indeed,  for  we  do  the  same.  How 
else  could  we  get  the  recruits  for  the  legions, 
the  votes  to  elect  the  Sanhedrim  and  the  pop- 
32 


ulace  to  cheer  the  Tetrarch  and  the  Procon 
sul?" 

"In  faith,  then  it  was  because  he  believed  in  a 
new  religion,  contrary  to  the  established 
church?" 

"Say  not  that  again,  stranger,  or  I  shall  think 
that  thou  hast  not  gathered  much  knowledge 
in  thy  many  journeys.  Thou  shouldst  know, 
forsooth,  that  we  are  very  tolerant  in  religious 
matters  and  that  our  Pantheon  hath  a  niche 
for  every  god.  The  more  religions  we  have 
the  better,  so  says  the  Praetor." 

"Upon  my  head,  thou  hast  spoken  the  truth, 
keeper  of  the  gate.  Then  I  gather  that  it  was 
because  he  forgave  the  adulterous  woman." 

"Not  so,  stranger.  We  had  good  divorce  laws 
ere  he  came,  and  many  unmarried  men  in  the 
land  who  would  rather  wed  a  repudiated 
woman  than  a  maiden." 

"By  my  rod,  so  it  is,  keeper  of  the  gate.  So  I 
infer  that  it  was  because  he  pardoned  the  har 
lot  of  yonder  city  I  passed  last  week." 

"Nay,  nay,  thou  speakest  not  wisely,  stranger. 
Harlotry  is  a  necessary  evil,  as  many  wise  men 
have  often  declared,  but  thou  hast  surely 
heard  of  late  that  we  have  appointed  councils 
of  rich  and  powerful  men  to  abate  it  and  re 
deem  the  fallen  women." 

"Indeed,  I  heard  of  it  and  it  is  a  most  worthy  and 
honorable  enterprise,  keeper  of  the  gate.  But 
now  I  know  it  truly:  it  was,  no  doubt,  because 
he  said  that  these  rich  men  could  not  enter 
the  kingdoms  of  the  blessed  hereafter." 

"Nay,  not  for  that,  stranger.  Everybody  says 
that,  even  the  high  priests  of  the  temples.  It 
is  by  saying  that,  that  the  rich  men  are  kept 

33 


on  this  earth,  as  I  heard  a  Pharisee  tell  a 
wealthy  publican." 

"Then  my  knowledge  goes  not  farther,  keeper 
of  the  gate.  I  beg  of  thee  to  tell  me  outright 
why  ye  crucified  him,  if  thou  wouldst  teach 
a  poor  wayfarer  who  is  seeking  after  wis 
dom." 

"Aye,  I  will  tell  thee,  stranger,  though  thy  curios 
ity  is  great  for  a  walker  of  Caesar's  roads.  It 
was  not  because  of  any  of  these  things,  but 
because  of  all  these  things,  because  he  said 
and  did  them  all  at  once  and  because  he 
talked  too  much  and  was  beginning  to  be 
heard  and  because  .  .  .  But  whither  art  thou 
going,  stranger?" 

"Where  the  highroad  leads,  keeper  of  the  gate." 


34 


TO 
A    BENCH  IN  MULBERRY  PARK 

Well,  after  many  a  year, 

I  see  thou  art  still  here, 

Old  bench,  old  haven  of  my  roaming  days; 

And  like  a  canopy 

On  royal  beds,  on  thee 

Its  green  pavilion  still  the  maple  sprays. 

They  were  not  sweet,  indeed, 

Those  dreary  days  of  need 

When  I,  each  night,  would  wonder  here  alone 

Whether  the  dawn  would  hail 

Another  thief  in  jail 

Or  at  the  morgue  another  corpse  unknown. 

They  were,  indeed,  so  crude, 

Those  days  of  solitude 

When  hunger  grinned  at  madness'  stony  stare. — 

Recall  not  that  again, 

For  love  has  come  since  then 

And  youth  has  won  the  battle  with  despair. 

Those  songs  instead  evoke 

That  sobs  and  tears  did  choke, 

And  that  young  faith  no  tempest  could  destroy; 

Recall  the  tunes  I  knew, 

The  dreams  each  morning  slew, 

And  those  that  since  fulfilled  their  task  of  joy. 

35 


When  every  roar  and  sound 

The  heartless  city  drowned 

Into  the  surging  ocean  of  the  night, 

To  me  alone  would  drift, 

A  rich  and  kingly  gift, 

The  flotsam  of  its  song  for  my  delight. 

From  all  these  windows  purred 

The  slumbers,  and  I  heard, 

Now  and  again,  a  cradling  mother  croon, 

While  from  the  roofs  afar 

Dropped  from  an  old  guitar 

The  sighs  of  some  young  lover  to  the  moon. 

Watching  the  clouds'  odd  race 

In  my  ecstatic  maze 

Meseemed  that  thou  into  their  sea  didst  soar, 

And  I  went  sailing  by, 

Young  Orpheus  of  the  sky, 

Like  a  doge  in  a  gorgeous  bucentaur. 

I  dreamed  and  dreamed  all  night, 

Young  dreams,  and  frail  and  bright, 

Like  little  buds  that  never  grow  to  bloom, 

Like  silver  clouds  that  pass, 

Like  crickets  in  the  grass, 

Like  yellow  fireflies  twinkling'in  the  gloom. 

Yea,  I  was  hungry — yet 

Sometimes  one  can  forget 

And  hungry  stomachs  often  find  a  dole, 

But  the  young  days  are  fleet 

When  one  can  fill  with  sweet 

And  moonlit  dreams  the  hunger  of  the  soul. 

Ah  me!  they're  gone,  those  days, 

36 


And  love  for  me  now  lays 

A  pillow  full  of  lullabies  to  sleep; 

But  it  is  hard,  alack ! 

That  memories  come  back 

Of  days  that  were  so  sad  when  one  can't  weep. 

Yet  in  my  deepest  heart 

I  feel  a  sudden  smart 

That  I  won't  tell  my  love  and  she  won't  see — 

Old  bench,  if  some  new  wretch 

His  limbs  on  thee  should  stretch, 

Be  kind  to  him  as  thou  hast  been  to  me. 


37 


OUT  OF  THE  MOUTH  OF  BABES 

Milady  was  sitting  at  the  table  under  the  pink 
wax-light,  alone  in  the  resplendent  hall. 

I  looked  in  from  the  street  and  knew  not  what 
resplended  the  most,  whether  the  young, 
blue-clad  sweetness  of  milady  or  the  chaste 
sheen  of  the  tablecloth,  or  the  luster  of  the 
candelabra,  the  silver,  the  gold,  the  crystal, 
or,  mayhap,  the  lucid  head  of  the  severe  and 
solemn  waiter. 

But  I  knew  that  the  waiter  was  there  because  of 
milady  and  not  milady  because  of  the  waiter, 
as  some  may  think. 

Milady  was  there  only  because  of  the  little,  frag 
ile,  shivering  bitch  she  held  in  her  arms,  and 
the  little  bitch  had  her  little  paws  on  the  white 
tablecloth  while  milady  fed  to  her,  delicately 
and  amorously,  the  soul  and  the  brain  of  the 
waiter  diluted  with  a  little  spoon  of  gold  in 
a  creamy  fluid,  in  a  noble  silver  bowl. 

Alone  milady  sat  in  the  great  hall  under  the  pink 
wax-light  as  I  watched  her  through  the  frost- 
embroidered  window,  and  methought  she  was 
Hebe  ministering  the  nectar  to  the  last  god. 

Outside,  the  great  black  carriage  awaited  under 
the  nimble-limbed  portico  of  alabaster,  and 
the  little  newsboy  who  stood  by  me  devoured 
with  his  eyes,  perhaps  the  uncarnal  beauty 

38 


of  milady,  perhaps  the  heavenly  gruel  of  the 
shivering  bitch. 

I  looked  at  him  and  deeply  I  looked  into  his 
ravenous  eyes,  and  then  I  asked:  "Of  what 
are  you  thinking,  my  little  friend?" 

Said  he:  "I  have  sold  six  papers  in  four  hours  and 
the  papers  are  now  wet  and  old,  for  they  age 
and  die  in  few  hours,  the  papers." 

Said  he:  "My  mother  is  dead,  my  father  is  in  jail, 
my  sister  is  in  the  saloon  and  I  have  sold  only 
six  papers  in  four  hours." 

Said  he  again:  "I  wish  I  was  that  dog." 

Again  I  looked  at  him,  and  his  eyes  were  full  of 
tears,  the  child  tears  that  only  the  women 
understand,  the  young  tears  that  make  men 
smile. 

And  I  said:  "Yea,  boy,  for  if  you  were  that  dog 
you  would  be  sure  to  eat  and  to  be  petted 
to-night. 

"And  also,  if  you  can  kiss  no  more  your  mother, 
at  least  you  could  lap  the  hand  of  your  mis 
tress,  for  she  is  very  dear  and  very  sweet.  Is 
it  not  so?" 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  me,  his  big  blue  eyes,  his 
placid  eyes  full  of  tears  and  he  glared  at  me 
and  answered  through  his  clenched  teeth : 

"No,  damn  you,  no,  I  would  tear  her  nose  off." 

And  he  darted  away  in  the  raging  blizzard. 

But  I  saw  the  sun,  the  sun,  the  great  sun,  the 
luminous  warm  sun,  right  in  the  front  of  him. 


39 


THE  BUM 

The  dust  of  thousand  roads,  the  grease 
And  grime  of  slums,  were  on  his  face; 

The  fangs  of  hunger  and  disease 

Upon  his  throat  had  left  their  trace; 

The  smell  of  death  was  in  his  breath, 
But  in  his  eye  no  resting  place. 

Along  the  gutters,  shapeless,  fagged, 

With  drooping  head  and  bleeding  feet, 
Throughout  the  Christmas  night  he  dragged 

His  care,  his  woe,  and  his  defeat; 
Till  gasping  hard  with  face  downward 

He  fell  upon  the  trafficked  street. 


The  midnight  revelry  aloud 

Cried  out  its  glut  of  wine  and  lust; 
The  happy,  clean,  indifferent  crowd 

Passed  him  in  anger  and  disgust; 
For — fit  or  rum — he  was  a  bum, 

And  if  he  died  'twas  nothing  lost. 


The  tramp,  the  thief,  the  drunk,  the  brute, 

The  beggar,  each  withdrew  his  eye; 
E'en  she,  the  bartered  prostitute, 

Held  close  her  skirts  and  passed  him  by; 
For,  drunk  or  dead,  the  street's  the  bed 

Where  dogs  and  bums  must  sleep  and  die. 

40 


So  all  went  on  to  their  debauch, 

Parade  of  ghosts  in  weird  array. 
Only  a  tramp  dog  did  approach 

That  mass  of  horror  and  decay — 
It  sniffed  him  out  with  its  black  snout 

Then  turned  about  and  limped  away. 

And  there  he  lay,  a  thing  of  dread, 

A  loathsome  thing  for  man  and  beast; 

None  put  a  stone  beneath  his  head, 
Or  wet  his  lips,  or  rubbed  his  wrist, 

And  none  drew  near  to  help  or  cheer — 
Save  a  policeman  and  a  priest. 

Yet  neither  heard  his  piteous  wail, 
And  neither  knelt  by  where  he  fell. 

The  man  in  blue  spoke  of  the  jail, 
Until  he  heard  his  rattle  tell, 

And  hearing  that,  he  motioned  at 
The  man  in  black  to  speak  of  hell. 

To  speak  of  hell,  lest  he  should  hope 
For  peace,  for  rest  untroubled,  deep, 

Where  he  no  more  need  roam  and  grope 
Through  dark,  foul  lanes  to  beg  and  weep, 

Where  in  the  vast  warm  earth  at  last 
He'd  find  a  resting  place  to  sleep. 

To  sleep — not  standing  tired  and  sick 
By  grimy  walls  and  cold  lamp  poles, 

Nor  crouched  in  fear  of  the  night  stick, 
To  beat  his  sore  and  swollen  soles, 

Nor  see  the  flares  of  green  nightmares 
And  ghastly  dawns  through  black  rat  holes; 

41 


To  sleep  beneath  the  green,  warm  earth 
As  in  a  sacred  mother's  womb, 

And  wait  the  call  of  a  new  birth, 

When  his  dead  life  again  shall  bloom — 

For  it  shall  pass  into  the  grass; 

The  lamb  will  graze  upon  his  tomb. 

Not  he,  not  he  shall  think  of  this, 

Not  he  the  wretched,  the  down  trod; 

Beyond  the  club  of  the  police 

Shall  reach  the  ruthless  hand  of  God, 

For  like  a  ghoul  the  rich  man's  rule 
Will  seek  him  out  beneath  the  sod. 


He  must  know  hell,  lest  he  should  guess 
That  all  his  weary  tramp  is  o'er 

A  hell  of  hunger  and  distress 

Where  he,  cold,  naked  and  footsore, 

Alone  and  ill,  must  wander  still 

Through  endless  roads  forevermore. 

Nay,  nay,  my  brother,  'tis  a  lie! 

Just  like  their  Christ,  their  love,  their  law! 
They  brewed  a  wolfish  fiend  on  high, 

Just  like  their  hearts  perverse  and  raw, 
To  damn  or  save  the  dying  slave, 

So  those  who  live  should  serve  in  awe. 

So  that  in  trembling  fear  they'd  hold 
Upon  their  neck  their  masters'  sway, 

So  that  they'd  guard  their  masters'  gold 
And  starve  and  freeze  and  still  obey, 

So  when  for  greed  they  toil  and  bleed, 
Instead  of  rising  they  should  pray. 

42 


That's  why  they  come  to  huts  and  slums ! 

Tis  not  to  soothe  or  to  console, 
But  just  to  stay  the  hungry  bums 

With  this  black  terror  of  the  soul, 
And  bend  and  blight  with  chains  of  fright 

What  chains  of  steel  could  not  control. 

And  yet,  and  yet  the  thunderbolt 

Shall  fall  some  day  they  fear  the  least, 

When  flesh  and  sinews  shall  revolt 
And  she,  the  mob,  the  fiend,  the  beast, 

Unchained,  awake,  shall  turn  and  break 
The  bloody  tables  of  their  feast. 

But  you,  my  brother,  will  be  dead, 
And  none  will  think  of  you  for  aye! 

Still  by  your  spirit  I'll  be  led, 
If  like  their  cattle  you'll  not  die, 

If  you'll  but  show  before  you  go 
That  mine  can  be  your  battle  cry! 

Aye,  brother,  death  all  woes  relieves — 
Yet  this  low  world  that  well  you  knew, 

This  Christian  world  of  sainted  thieves 
And  fat  apostles  of  virtue, 

This  world  of  brutes  and  prostitutes, 
Must  see  its  end  revealed  by  you! 

Rise  then!    Your  rags,  your  bleeding  shirt, 
Tear  from  your  crushed  and  trampled  chest, 

Fling  in  its  face  its  own  vile  dirt, 
Your  scorn  and  hate  to  manifest, 

And  in  its  gray  cold  eyes  of  prey 
Spit  out  your  life  and  your  protest ! 

Salem  Jail,  Nov.  20,  1912. 

43 


THE  MAGDALENE 

The  service  over,  the  silk-hatted  pastor, 
Smooth-shaven,  jovial,  fat  and  debonair, 

A  merry  joke  on  his  ascetic  master, 

Met  in  the  empty  church  a  woman's  stare. 

He  paused,  his  hands  on  his  rotund  abdomen 
Piously  laid,  and  quoth  with  solemn  mien: 

"What  can  I  do  for  you,  my  worthy  woman?" 
She  rose  and  said:  "I  am  the  Magdalene. 

"You  said  that  I  believed  and  was  forgiven, 
That  faith  alone  can  save  and  purify, 

And  from  the  stews  I  came,  whence  I  was  driven, 
To  seal  upon  your  lips  the  monstrous  lie. 

"For  though  I  have  believed  and  not  denied  Him, 
Though  with  my  bitter  tears  I  washed  His  feet, 

The  harpy  clutch  of  greed  that  crucified  Him 
Has  dragged  me  back  into  the  sunless  street. 

"From  pit  to  pit  it  dragged  me  down,  a  mourner 
Of  His  great  shattered  dream,  with  blows  and 
sneers, 

And  you  have  seen  me  stand  around  the  corner, 
A  traded  strumpet  for  two  thousand  years. 

"You  saw  them   with   their  hands   of   fiendish 
malice, 

44 


From  this,  my  withered,  soulless  flesh  of  pain, 
Wring  out  the  gold  with  which  they  bought  the 

chalice 
Where  now  you  gulp  his  precious  blood  again. 

"All  this  you  saw,  and  still  to  them  that  Jesus 
Drove  from  his  house,  aye,  from  this  very  place, 

You  sell  his  heav'n  for  thirty  silver  pieces, 
And  for  a  mess  of  potage  my  disgrace. 

"You  call  on  them  his  blessing  while  I  wander 
On  all  the  ways  of  hell  where  I  was  thrust, 

And  while  you  soothe  their  glutted  souls,  you 

pander 
To  my  eternal  shame  and  to  their  lust. 

"And  yet  I  know,  in  all  my  desolation, 

The  Saviour  shall  soon  come  to  my  release, 

No  more  a  doleful  voice  of  resignation, 
No  more  a  God-sent  messenger  of  peace, 

"But  a  red-winged  archangel  of  the  devil 

Who  shall  disperse  for  aye  the  ravenous  brood, 

Your  lies  hush  in  the  offals  of  their  revel, 

And  give  me  back  my  soul  and  womanhood." 


45 


THE  PRAISE  OF  SPRING 

I  have  hated  thee,  O  Spring. 

With  all  the  furies  of  my  inextinguishable  blood, 
with  all  the  aches  of  my  unappeasable  flesh 
I  have  hated  thee, 
And  despised  thee, 
And  cursed  thee,  O  Spring. 

I  have  hated  thee  for  the  stupidity  of  thy  flowers 
that  smelled  the  carrion  of  the  covered  graves, 

For  the  acquiescent  foolishness  of  thy  ever  nod 
ding  trees, 

For  the  frigid  chastity  of  thy  skies, 

For  the  garrulity  of  thy  silly  cackling  waters 

And  for  the  petulance  of  thy  eternal  reappearing. 

0  thou  idiotic,  unoriginal  repentance  of  the  de 

crepit  earth. 

1  have  hated  thee  because  thou  wert  an  atonement, 

not  a  rebellion;  thou  wert  a  returning  child 
hood,  not  a  reconquered  virility,  O  Spring. 

No  storms,  no  tempests,  no  hurricanes, 

No  spasms  of  long-nursed  follies, 

No  violences  of  coveted  passions, 

No  brazen  display  of  warm  desires  and  unclad 
sins, 

No  exaltation  of  fecund  motherhood, 

Nothing  but  the  recurrence  of  an  old  fashion,  the 
re-wearing  of  the  discarded,  ignoble  dress  of 
green,  a  new  coat  of  perfumed  rouge  over  the 

46 


wrinkles  of  the  same  old  yellow  face  of  the 

world. 

*  *         * 

I  have  hated  thee,  O  Spring.  With  all  the  im 
petuosity  of  my  living  being  I  have  hated 
thee. 

I  have  hated  thee  for  the  evil  filter  of  thy  air, 
that  abominable  potion  that  has  nothing  but 
the  effervescence  of  its  bubbles, 

That  tasteless  broth  of  malignity  which  does  not 
inebriate  like  a  generous  wine, 

Which  does  not  kill  like  a  magnificent  poison, 

Which  is  neither  a  bitter  medicine  that  heals  the 
heart-fevers  of  youth,  nor  a  sweet  narcotic 
that  gives  sleep. 

That  wert  a  painted  and  tinseled  masquerade, 

0  Spring,  a  stimulant  for  old  age,  not  a  cor 
dial  for  battling  manhood,  and  no  life  was  in 
thee  save  the  fermentation  of  dead  things. 

The  life  that  grew  not  out  of  the  creating  labors 
of  love,  but  out  of  the  stillness  of  corpses,  so 
that  the  warrior  Winter  again  might  have 
ought  to  destroy. 

The  purveyor  of  Death,  not  the  handmaid  of 
Life  thou  wert,  for  no  nurslings  that  the 
grave  could  not  claim  were  ever  to  sleep  in 
the  warmth  of  thy  breasts. 

*  *         * 

But  why,  even  for  that  and  because  of  that,  did 

1  hate  thee,  O  Spring? 

Was  it  the  overpowering  onrush  of  manhood 
that  was  invading  my  soul  and  sweeping 
away  from  it  the  dreams,  the  follies,  the 
chimeras  of  my  silent,  wide-eyed,  ghost-like 
youth  ? 

Was  it  because,  in  spite  of  thy  breath,  laden  with 

47 


all  the  unknowable  maladies  of  the  invisible 
life,  my  heart  wounds,  my  soul  wounds  whose 
crusts  I  had  been  tearing  with  my  sharp  nails, 
were  healing  and  no  longer  I  loved  to  torment 
their  pain? 

Or  was  it  the  pale  light  of  a  vision  I  had  kindled 
with  the  first  spark  of  my  childhood  and  fed 
with  the  shreds  of  my  years,  that  suddenly 
blazed  forth  like  a  terrible  pyre  for  the  con 
flagration  of  the  world  thou  earnest  back  to 
refresh  and  regreen? 

Whoever  will  know  and  tell?  Whoever  cares 
to  know? 

Not  I,  not  I,  O  Spring. 

I  was  alone,  I  who  was  alive  in  myself,  was 
alone  in  thy  dead  splendor  a  thousandfold 
resurrected  and  a  thousandfold  annihilated, 

And  I  who  could  be  killed  but  once  and  nevermore 
be  arisen, 

I  who  carried  the  burden  of  but  one  single  life, 
the  burden  I  never  tried  to  lighten  but  ever 
tried  to  increase  with  my  greedy,  far-reaching, 
all-apprehending  hands, 

I  sneered  the  contempt  of  my  glorious  mortality 
unto  thee  that  art  not  immovable  and  eternal 
and  yet  art  not  forever  to  die. 

For  it  is  engraved  on  the  vaults  of  the  unassail 
able  firmaments  and  it  is  burned  in  the  dark 
of  the  unfathomable  profundities  that  they 
alone  who  are  to  meet  death  are  the  master 
and  the  commanders  of  life. 
*  *  * 

There  was  I  alone  with  my  challenge  against 

thee  and  thy  mother,  O  Spring. 
And  thy  wiles  and  thy  lures  that  made  thee  the 

easy-yielding  courtesan  of  all  creatures  had 

48 


no  power  and  no  charm  over  me,  the  rebellious 
child  of  sin. 

And  for  this  I  hated  thee,  because  there  was  no 
chastity  in  thee,  because  thou  wert  the  com 
mon  mistress  of  all  and  I  was  waiting  for  the 
Virgin-Bride  of  the  Ideal. 

And  my  glory  grew  as  great  as  my  strength,  and 
my  strength  as  great  as  my  desire,  because 
of  my  solitude. 

There  was  in  my  beating  temples  the  panting  of 
the  only  reality  of  life, 

All  the  onslaught  of  time  was  ramming  and 
breaking  against  my  bare  and  villous  chest. 

All  the  red-maned  steeds  of  destruction,  trem 
bling  with  the  furious  lust  of  the  race  were 
leashed  to  my  fist; 

And  I  who  had  breathed  the  warm  wind  of  the 
battle-field, 

And  the  raging  soul  of  the  storm, 
And  the  ashes  of  the  galloping  fire, 
And  the  dust  of  the  things  destroyed, 

I,  who  shed  tears  only  when  I  looked  open-eyed 
at  the  noon  sun, 

I  heard  in  the  echo  of  my  steps  in  thy  woods  the 
footfalls  of  the  bronze-shod  Vandal  through 
the  columns  of  the  burned  and  pillaged  temple 
where  all  the  tripods  blazed  with  the  Greek 
fire  and  the  face  of  the  stone  gods  was  ground 
under  the  ironed  hoof  of  the  stallions. 

For  this  I  hated  thee,  O  Spring,  because  I  was 
a  destroyer  and  not  a  worshipper  of  silent 
things. 

And  because  I  was  waiting  for  the  scarlet-robed, 
flame-winged,  storm-haired  Bride  of  the  Fu 
ture  for  whose  nuptials  a  greater  altar  fire 
shall  be  built  than  that  of  the  volcanoes, 

49 


I  flung  into  the  face  of  that  old  mother  of  yours. 
Nature,  whose  obscene  nakedness,  polluted  by 
the  vile  caresses  of  all  the  distorted  fingers 
of  greed  thou  wert  recovering  with  thy 
tawdry  mantle  of  green,  not  my  staff,  O 
Spring,  not  my  javelin,  not  my  broken  spur, 
but  just  one  word,  just  one  word,  O  Spring. 

II 

And  now  thou  hast  returned  again. 

Again  thou  hast  returned  with  thy  green  and 
thy  blue  and  thy  gold  and  thy  breezes,  but  lo! 
thou  art  so  strangely  and  so  wildly  different 
unto  my  eyes  and  into  the  mirror  where  my 
eyes  cannot  look,  O  Spring. 

For  the  day  I  saw  the  first  dandelion  and  the 
first  daisy  and  I  heard  the  first  strident  voice 
of  the  cricket,  the  little  messengers  that  an 
nounced  thee,  that  day  I  was  alone  no  more. 

Another  one  was  by  my  side,  and  she  was  young, 
and  she  was  fair,  and  she  was  lost  like  me  in 
the  gateless  labyrinth  of  life. 

Like  me  she  had  nursed  her  youth  with  the  di 
vine  nectar  of  the  tempests, 

Like  me  she  was  cruel  with  many  angers  and  sad 
with  many  cares, 

Like  me  she  understood  the  lofty  virtues  of 
hatred  and  the  endless  march  onward  to  the 
gate  that  does  not  exist,  with  no  other  com 
pass  to  guide  our  feet  but  our  will  to  go. 

Yet  was  she  not  like  me,  for  on  her  forehead 
there  were  not  the  scars  of  the  fierce  affrays, 

On  her  lips  there  were  not  the  bitter  wrinkles 
furrowed  by  the  long,  unerasable  sneers, 

Nor  on  her  wrists  the  marks  of  torn  and  broken 
fetters  and  chains, 

50 


Nor  the  shadows  of  crossed  darknesses  had  re 
mained  in  her  limpid  eyes. 

She  was  not  like  me,  yet  much  that  was  in  me 
was  in  her,  and  because  her  destiny,  like  mine, 
compelled  her  to  go  and  never  to  look  behind, 
I  paused  with  her  and  in  her  I  forgot  all  thy 
malevolence  and  all  my  hatred  of  thee,  O 
Spring. 

And  there  were  two  alive  in  the  old  world-ceme 
tery  of  corpses,  she  and  I  in  the  immense 
crypt  of  the  universe,  O  Spring. 

*         *         * 

Why  dost  thou  bid  me  remember  that  day,  by 
all  thy  days,  O  Despot? 

What  does  it  matter  now  that  I  hate  thee  no 
more? 

I  know  not  what  new  spell  was  heaved  about  me 
by  the  mighty  mouth  that  breathes  all  the 
fearful  gales  of  life, 

But  this  I  do  remember,  that  my  soul  became  a 
cage  full  of  nightingales  and  her  hand  opened 
the  door  and  they  flew  away  in  the  azure  of 
thy  heavens  in  a  long  thrill  of  song. 

And  this  also  I  do  remember,  that  my  heart  in 
which  every  scythe  had  reaped  till  it  was 
nothing  but  a  barren  desolation,  bloomed  up 
suddenly  in  all  thy  apple  blossoms,  in  all  thy 
almond  trees,  in  all  the  flowers  of  thy  orchards 
and  of  thy  gardens,  O  Spring. 

And  I  could  not  throw  out  of  it  its  myriad  flow 
ers,  for  she  had  laid  her  hand  on  my  heart 
and  I  dared  not  break  open  the  gentle  gate 
of  her  fingers. 

And  so  those  flowers  remained  in  me  and  left  in 
me  their  fragrance  and  their  pollen,  and  I 

51 


grew  happy  and  wiser  and  older  in  the  eter 
nity  of  that  moment. 

I  grew  wiser  that  she  might  keep  her  illusions, 
and  I  grew  older  that  I  might  see  more  of  her 
youth,  but  I  was  happy,  for  I  held  her  quiver 
ing  spirit  in  my  trembling  hands,  like  a  frail 
crystal  bowl  for  the  priceless,  divine  offering 
of  my  first  tear. 

And  lo!  something  broke  within  me,  in  the  un 
trodden  and  unexplored  recesses  of  me  (was 
it  a  chain,  was  it  a  wall?)  and  I  was  free,  and 
I  was  free  from  myself, 

Free  to  give  me  to  a  new  dungeon,  free  to  sell 
me  to  a  new  bondage,  I  who  until  then  had 
had  about  me  only  the  fetters  of  my  pride. 

But  what  do  I  care,  O  Spring,  and  what  dost 

thou  care  now  that  I  hate  thee  no  more? 

*         *         * 

Again  the  flame  I  had  tried  to  smother  blazed 
forth  from  the  innest  hearths  of  my  being  and 
my  spirit  grew  lighter, 

Every  bird,  every  butterfly  that  flew  away  car 
ried  forth  one  of  my  unbound  thoughts. 

And  I  broke  the  spell  of  the  abyss  and  my  soul 
rose  with  the  vapors  of  thy  waters  and  the 
breath  of  thy  mountains  and  the  fogs  of  thy 
valleys  and  the  fragrance  of  thy  flowers  to 
wards  the  Dream  that  is  hidden  by  the  daz 
zling  light  of  the  sun. 

There  must  have  been  in  me,  in  the  silence  and 
darkness  of  me,  a  stranded  god  of  old  that 
had  fallen  asleep  in  the  first  spring  of  the 
world.  And  she  awoke  him  with  a  kiss. 

Why,  why?  Was  it  because  it  was  spring  and 
spring  was  different  to  her,  or  because  we 
were  both  two  pilgrims  journeying  together 

52 


to  the  same  shrine,  I  to  burn  the  last  offerings 
of  my  fading  youth  and  she  to  depose  the  first 
garland  of  hers? 

What  does  it  matter,  O  Spring,  now  that  I  hate 
thee  no  more? 

She  kissed  me  and  I  awoke;  again  I  awoke  in  the 
old  land  of  beauty  and  song  I  had  dwelled  in 
since  the  day  I  knew  the  first  word  I  spoke, 
and  again  my  lips  were  unsealed  by  the  un- 
crushable  swelling  of  the  rising  paean  to  thee, 
O  thou  who  art  greater  than  life. 

And  again  I  became  all-knowing  and  all-power 
ful, 

The  maker  of  wonders,  the  weaver  of  wreaths, 
the  giver  of  treasures  and  kingdoms,  the 
killer  of  dragons  and  the  builder  of  temples 
and  dreams, 

And  I  spun  with  my  nimble  fingers  the  rays  of 
the  setting  sun  to  make  an  aureole  for  her 
dark  hair, 

And  I  embroidered  into  the  green  foliage  the 
chaste  languor  of  the  blue  sky  and  there  I  set 
her  head  and  contemplated  in  adoration  the 
first  masterpiece  of  my  new  handiwork. 

And  I  said  unto  her:  Lo,  of  all  her  flowers, 
Spring  has  given  the  rose  to  Love  and  the 
myrtle  to  the  one  that  is  greater,  but  unto 
thee  that  art  between  both  and  vowed  and 
fated  to  both,  I  shall  give  the  flower  that 
grows  unsown  in  the  wilderness  and  was 
never  plucked,  was  never  laid  on  the  altars 
and  the  tombs  and  the  cradles,  I  shall  give 
thee  the  thistle,  sharp  and  pungent  and  bris 
tling  like  a  flame  of  raised  swords. 
*  *  * 

And  so  it  was  that  the  lure  of  spring  came  again 

53 


upon  me,  and  I  understood  it  and  loved  it 

and   made    amend    and    repentance   for   my 

hatred. 
For  she,  this   new  Spring  of  mine  and  of  the 

world  that  is  to  be  mine  was  not  false  and 

decayed, 

She  was  not  vanity  and  decoy, 
She  was  not  proffering  to  ignoble  lovers  the  wiles 

of  her  lust, 
But  she  was  offering  to  all  the  children  of  life 

and  all  the  warriors  of  the  world  the  abundant 

milk  of  her  overflowing  motherly  breasts  and 

the  balsam  of  her  love. 

*         *         * 

But  shall  I  sing  of  love  now,  I  who  could  only 
sing  to  the  tune  of  the  clarions  of  war? 

And  shall  I  forget  for  a  woman  my  black  froth 
ing  horse  that  neighs  after  the  twanging  ar 
rows  in  the  wind? 

And  shall  I  not  lose  my  strength  when  her  arms 
shall  encircle  me  where  thou  hast  girt  me  with 
the  sword,  O  Gea,  my  mother  immortal? 


"SING  ME  TO  SLEEP " 

When  in  my  night  like  gaunt,  gray  phantoms  rise 
The  wild-eyed  hours  of  brooding  reverie, 

If  in  my  heart  a  sudden  anguish  cries 

That  thou  also  hast  passed  away  from  me, 

If  I  but  think  that  one  regretful  sigh 
Thy  joyless  love  has  breathed  unaware, 

I  know  not  what  a  barren  will  to  die 

Dissolves  my  strength  into  a  mute  despair. 

Oh,  if  upon  thy  breast  I  could  then  lay 
My  weary  head  and  hear  thee  sing  again 

That  sad,  sweet  song,  and  as  it  dies  away 
Exhale  my  spirit  in  its  last  refrain ! 


55 


UTOPIA 

'Tis  writ,  and  I  believe  with  all  my  power, 
That  a  great  day  shall  come,  O  Master,  when, 

Even  as  from  a  putrid  clod  a  flower, 

So  in  thy  heart  shall  bloom  the  love  of  men, — 

A  day  when  sweet  and  noble  tasks  shall  hallow 
These  charnels  where  thy  slaves  now  drudge 
and  plod, 

And  thou  no  more  a  groveling  swine  shalt  wallow 
Amid  the  puddles  of  their  sweat  and  blood, — 

A  day  when  shall  thy  soldiers  cease  their  slaugh 
ters, 

No  more  thy  name  shall  widows  execrate, 
When  shall  grow  chaste  thy  meretricious  daugh 
ters 
And  thy  abandoned  sons  regenerate, 


"Wt 


hen  thy  grandchildren  shall  not  know  what 

lust  is, 

Nor  shall  thy  festering  sins  corrode  their  youtlj< 
When  thy  lawmakers  shall  believe  in  justice, 
Yea,  and  thy  priests  shall  seek  and  preach  the 

truth,— 

A  day  when  thy  old  parents  from  the  gutter 
Shall  beg  no  more  thine  alms  as  they  do  now, 

56 


And  thou,  withal,  shalt  earn  thy  bread  and  butter 
By  thine  own  labor's  sweat  upon  thy  brow; — 

A  day  shall  come  when  gold  shall  not  enthrall 

thee, 

When  theft  and  murder  cease  to  be  thy  rule; 
So  I,  who  call  thee  now  a  friend,  shall  call  thee, 
Forsooth,    a    true    and    upright    man, 

"Thou  fool !" 


57 


THE  WELL  OF  THE  GODS^ 

I 

I  know  a  well  engraved  with  mystic  runes 
Within  a  clump  of  poplars  in  a  dale, 

Where  sweetest  are  the  shadows  of  the  noons 
And  from  the  hills  winds  down  the  shepherd's 
trail. 

The  fount  that  gurgles  in  its  limpid  pool, 

Not  thousand  years  nor  thousands  have  dis 
persed, 

And  is  so  clear  its  water,  and  so  cool, 
That  all  who  look  in  it  become  athirst. 

I  love  its  quaint,  round  mirror  at  twilight, 
And  as  in  it  for  my  own  face  I  search, 

Methinks  I  see  instead  an  anchorite 
In  some  old  fresco  of  a  Roman  church. 

And  as  along  its  walls  like  lizards  creep 

The  quivering  arabesques  of  green  and  gold, 

I  hear  a  flute-like  voice  from  out  the  deep, 
As  of  a  strayed  and  lonely  faun  of  old, 

Who,  when  the  gods  migrated,  lay  in  his  hold 
asleep. 

II 

Only  the  rain  doth  in  its  depths  descend, 
A  jagged  shred  of  sky  and  few  tree  tops; 

58 


But  if  Scirocco  peradventure  rend 
The  palisaded  rampart  of  the  copse, 

All  of  the  mountain's  breath,  the  gorge's  boom, 
The  crash  of  riven  trees  the  tempest  tore, 

Would  then  be  cast  into  the  startled  gloom 
And  fill  it  all  with  echoes  and  uproar. 

But  when  into  its  lap  of  velvet  throws 
A  group  of  stars  the  eventide  of  June, 

And  brighter  in  its  magic  mirror  glows 
The  silver  sickle  of  the  crescent  moon, 

When  to  the  sleepy  lark  that  faintly  sings 
The  clear,  full-throated  nightingale  responds, 

The  blent  accord  of  light  and  music  rings 
Like  bounding  pearls  into  a  bowl  of  bronze. 

Love,  in  the  well  then  flutter  my  garlands  and 
thy  wings. 

Ill 

Chalice  and  urn  of  all  the  gods  of  yore, 

Is  in  thy  bosom  such  a  wizardryt 
That  he  inherits  all  thy  ancient  lore    . 

Who  drinks  the  nectar  they  forgot  in  thee. 

Thus  I,  who  come  a  pilgrim  from  the  hill, 

Ere  I  ascend  unto  a  loftier  goal, 
Do  drink  of  thee  with  avid  lips,  to  fill 

Out  of  thy  plenitude  of  songs  my  soul. 

And  lo!  meseems  that  in  the  golden  sheen 
Centaurs  and  Satyrs  gambol  in  the  grove, 

And  Nymphs  and  Naiads  on  thy  border  lean 
To  sing  the  strains  of  a  forgotten  love. 

59 


And  though  into  the  heavens  of  pure  sapphire 
Only  the  shepherd's  lay  soars  high  and  clear, 

With  wistful  ears  of  rapture  and  desire 
Breathless  with  wonder  I  can  almost  hear 

Attuning  their  eclogue  the  laureled  Virgil's  lyre. 


60 


THE  LAST  NICKEL 

I 

COLD  and  silent  and  myriad-eyed  with  the  chills 
of  dead  things,  with  the  silence  of  the  things 
that  are  eternal  and  with  the  tremulous  palpi 
tation  of  the  stars  was  the  night,  the  holy 
night  of  my  awakening  and  my  despair.  * 

I  stood  before  the  blazing  windows  of  Tiffany.  \ 
Frozen  tears  of  shame  and  pain  and  wrath, 
frozen  clots  of  murder  blood,  frozen  drops  of 
poison  were  the  pearls,  the  rubies,  the  emer 
alds  that  glittered  and  winked,  malevolent  as 
the  first  hoar-frost  upon  a  bed  of  flowers,  as 
the  grin  of  a  mortal  enemy,  as  the  leer  of  lust 
ful  eyes  that  glare  into  eyes  that  are  full  of 
tears. 

I  had  just  kissed  Her  for  the  first  time,  perhaps 
the  eternal  troth,  perhaps  the  everlasting 
farewell,  so  I  looked  not  into  the  mirage  of 
the  hell-lit  window,  for  I  was  thinking. 

I  was  thinking  of  her  eyes,  wide  open,  frightened 
and  full  of  promises,  retreating  slowly  like  the 
phosphorescent  haze  of  dreams  into  the  black 
ness  of  the  tenement  hallway; 

I  was  thinking  of  the  gasping  windows  gulping 
the  thin  breath  of  the  dying  trees  through  the 
stuffed  fire  escapes; 

I  was  thinking  of  the  room  where  She  now  stood, 
wonder-eyed,  loosening  her  hair,  and  of  the 

61 


poor  virginal  bed  by  the  strangled  airshaft 
where  She  would  lie  awake  all  night  thinking 
of  me. 
I  was  thinking  of  all  She  would  hear  through  the 

endless  night; 

The  incessant  wailing  of  the  sick  child  above, 
and    the   maddening    rhythm    of   the    cradle 
rocked  by  a  nerveless,  unstrung  hand, 
The  heavy  snoring  of  the  man  below,  frightful 

like  a  death  rattle, 

The  stealthy,  cautious  steps  of  the  belated  girl 
and  the  grumbling  curses  and  the  muffled 
weeping, 

The  foul-worded,  blow-crashing  quarrel  of  the 
couple  that  would  tear  through  the 
wall, 

int  echo  of  my  faltering  good-by,  and 
;ling  sound  of  her  own  sighs, 
thinking  also  of  the  red  ribbon  She 
rn  for  so  many  weeks,  ever  since  I 
fer,  and  of  the  broken-lipped  step  of 
her  doorway,  and  of  my  last  nickel,  which  was 
dearer  to  me  than  all  the  gems  in  that  de 
moniacal  window  and  which  I  was  about  to 
throw  awav,  an  immense  and  unknown  sacri 
fice,  for  the  love  of  Her. 

II 

But  even  as  I  was  about  to  cast  it  solemnly  and 
religiously  away,  with  the  rite  of  the  priest 
who  drops  the  offering  into  the  fire  and  the 
vast  gesture  of  the  sower  who  scatters  the 
seeds  of  the  bread,  two  men  approached  me, 
two  shadows  of  the  light  of  the  gems. 
Said  one:  "For  two  whole  days  I  have  not  eaten. 
No  one  believes  me,  and  if  you  also  do  not. 
I  shall  die.  Give  me  a  nickel  in  the  name  of 

62 


Jesus  and  of  the  One  you  love  and  I  will  pray 
God  for  your  happiness  and  your  salvation." 

I  looked  at  him  and  in  his  eyes,  where  the  pupils 
had  been,  I  saw  the  yellow  prints  of  the  bony 
finger  tips  of  hunger. 

Said  the  other:  "I  know  that  I  am  drunk,  but  I 
need  more.  Give  me  the  nickel  and  I  will 
drink  it  to  your  health  and  joy." 

I  looked  at  him  also  and  in  his  eyes,  where  the 
sunlight  had  been,  I  saw  the  smothering  em 
bers  of  his  soul. 

But  neither  in  the  eyes  of  the  one,  nor  in  the 
eyes  of  the  other,  saw  I  reflected  the  fierce 
glow  of  the  jewels  in  the  nearby  window. 
They  both  wanted  my  nickel,  my  onfo-  nickel, 
my  last  nickel,  my  cheap,  finger-AfABifcnickel 
— a  loaf  of  bread — a  glass  of  x  H  Rf — no 
more !  M  Bf 

in  | 

Chuckled  aloud  in  my  ears  the  fiend^^p  lurked 
in  the  scintillating  window,  the^pnd  that 
kindles  all  the  evil  fires  of  the  world,  and  said: 
"Behold,  thou  who  hast  only  a  nickel  art  now 
become  a  dispenser  of  life  and  death  and  an 
arbiter  of  destinies.  But  thou  canst  satisfy 
but  one  man,  and  thou  hast  not  the  wisdom 
of  a  Solomon.  Whichever  man  thou  givest 
it  to,  not  knowing  whether  the  one  be  truly 
hungry  or  the  other  really  need  it  more,  thy 
gift  shall  accrue  to  the  injustice  of  the  world. 
Throw  it  away,  then,  for  her  sake,  as  thou 
desirest,  build  with  it  a  little  mound  of  thine 
own  happiness,  and  not  a  mountain  of  thy 
conceit." 

I  thought  of  the  sweatshop  where  She  was  going 
to  work  again  the  next  day  .  .  . 

63 


Then  the  angel  in  me  spoke:  "Nay,  give  it  to  the 
hungry  one.  If  She  were  here  by  thee,  thou 
knowest  that  thou  wouldst  give  it  to  him. 
What  greater  deed  canst  thou  do  for  the  love 
of  Her  to-night?  Give  it  to  him,  he  will  live 
because  he  shall  eat  and  the  other  will  not 
die,  because  he  will  not  drink  the  last  goblet 
of  poison.  Thou  shalt  thus  save  two  men." 

Then  said  the  devil  in  me:  "Remember  what  was 
said  of  old:  'We  asked  for  bread  and  ye  gave 
us  a  stone.'  They  understood  not  the  sym 
bol  then,  nor  would  they  understand  it  now. 
They  know  not  what  to  do  with  a  stone,  a 
good  heavy  stone,  a  fine  hard  stone  that 
would  go  as  far  as  their  hunger,  their  thirst 
and  their  manhood.  Preach,  then,  no  more 
idle  sermons  and  give  it  to  the  drunken  one. 
He  will  die  of  delirium  and  the  other  of  hun 
ger.  Thou  shalt  thus  kill  two  brutes." 

I  saw  the  malevolent  glitter,  the  leer  and  the 
sneer  of  the  diamonds,  the  pearls,  the  rubies, 
the  emeralds  in  the  hell-lit  window,  and  I  saw 
in  the  eyes  of  the  two  men  nothing  but  the 
greed  and  the  fever  for  my  nickel,  my  last 
nickel,  for  my  cheap,  finger-worn  nickel  .  .  . 

And  I  gave  it  to  one  of  them. 


THE   REPUBLIC 

The  king  had  said:  "By  right  divine 
As  old  as  God's  own  laws  are  old, 
All  that  you  have,  all  that  you  hold, 
All  that  you  think  and  do  is  mine. 

"I  own  forever  and  control 

Your  house,  your  field,  your  ox,  your  wife, 

So,  I  shall  rule  your  mortal  life 

And  my  good  liege,  the  pope,  your  soul. 

"Obey,  then,  both;  do  not  rebel, 
For,  should  you  rise  against  our  will, 
You'll  have,  in  this  world,  my  Bastille, 
And  in  the  other  world  his  hell." 

So  said  the  king.    And  then  there  came, 
Aglow  with  anger  and  with  steel, 
A  goddess  of  the  common  weal, 
With  eyes  of  fire  and  hair  of  flame. 

Not  hers  the  wisdom  which  decrees 
That  time  alone  must  wrongs  allay, 
Not  hers  the  craven  heart  to  pray 
And  barter  liberty  for  peace ; 

Not  hers  the  fear  to  hesitate 
When  shame  and  misery  cry  out — 
Love  has  no  patience,  truth  no  doubt, 
And  right  and  justice  cannot  wait. 

65 


So,  loud  into  the  midnight  air 
She  rang  the  tocsin's  weird  alarm, 
She  called,  and  as  by  potent  charm 
From  its  mysterious  haunt  and  lair, 

The  Mob,  the  mightiest  judge  of  all, 
To  hear  the  rights  of  Man  came  out, 
And  every  word  became  a  shout, 
And  every  shout  a  musket  ball. 

Against  the  castle  walls  the  picks 
She  raised  and  planted  there  her  flags, 
Against  the  ermine  hurled  the  rags, 
The  torch  against  the  crucifix, 

The  guillotine  against  the  rope, 
And  ere  the  eastern  sky  grew  red, 
Behold  she  flung  the  king's  proud  head 
Upon  the  altars  of  the  pope. 

And  when  upon  the  great  sunrise 
Flew  her  disheveled  victories 
To  all  the  lands,  on  all  the  seas, 
Like  angry  eagles  in  the  skies, 

To  ring  the  call  of  brotherhood 
And  hail  mankind  from  shore  to  shore, 
Wrapt  in  her  splendid  tricolor 
The  People's  virgin  bride  she  stood. 

*         *         * 

This  was  the  dawn.    But  when  the  day 
Wore  out  with  all  its  festive  songs, 
And  all  the  hearts,  and  all  the  tongues 
Were  stilled  in  wonder  and  dismay, — 

66 


When  night  with  velvet-sandaled  feet 
Stole  in  her  chamber's  solitude, 
Behold !  she  lay  there  naked,  lewd, 
A  drunken  harlot  of  the  street, 

With  withered  breasts  and  shaggy  hair 
Soiled  by  each  wanton,  frothy  kiss, 
Between  a  sergeant  of  police 
And  a  decrepit  millionaire. 


THE  FUNERAL 

I  saw  a  funeral  go  by  this  morning,  a  black 
hearse  driven  by  one  black  horse  climbing 
slowly  the  silent  street,  the  street  unsouled 
and  grief-stricken  by  the  gray  omens  of  the 
coming  first  snow. 

No  carriages  followed  the  black  hearse,  no 
mourners  walked  behind  it,  no  flowers  were 
on  the  coffin,  and  my  heart,  my  mad  heart 
that  divines  everything,  told  me  that  no  one 
was  weeping  in  the  great  city. 

I  followed  it  with  my  unseeing  eyes  and  then  I 
turned  to  my  love  who  stood  by  me  at  the 
window  (always  with  me,  always  by  me  shall 
be  my  love)  and  I  wanted  to  kiss  her  to  dis 
pel  the  anguish  of  the  gray  morning  and  of 
the  silent  street  and  of  the  black  hearse. 

But  my  love  held  me  away  with  her  hand  and 
said:  "Nay,  kiss  me  not  now  and  speak  not 
of  our  love,  but  let  us  go  and  follow  that 
hearse,  and  throw  some  earth  into  the  grave, 
for  that  is  our  forgotten  brother  that  died 
yesterday." 

And  I  said  to  my  love:  "Aye,  my  love,  let  us  go 
and  mourn  for  him,  our  unknown  brother, 
so  that  some  day  someone  shall  also  walk 
behind  our  biers.  At  least  one,  at  least 
one  .  .  ." 

But  my  love  answered  again :  "Nay,  what  will  it 

68 


matter  to  us  then?  We  shall  be  two  in  the 
coffin.  Let  us  go  and  mourn  for  him,  just 
for  him,  only  for  the  sake  of  him,  only  for  the 
sake  of  sorrow  and  death  and  tears. 

"For  we  have  cursed  and  fought  and  hated 
enough,  my  love,  and  it  will  do  us  good  to 
weep." 

And  we  followed  the  lonely  hearse  up  the  silent 
street,  the  street  unsouled  and  grief-stricken 
by  the  gray  omens  of  the  coming  first  snow, 

And  we  looked  not  at  each  other,  and  we  did 
not  speak. 


69 


TO  JOSEPH  J.  ETTOR 

On  his  2Jth  Birthday 

Well,  Joe,  my  good  friend,  though  we  cannot  pre 
tend  " 

That  we're  happy  we  still  can  regale, 
We  can  laugh  and  be  merry,  though  claret  and 

sherry 

Are  so  scarce  to  us,  even  in  jail; 
But  although  our  good  wine  is  the  prison's  foul 

brine 

And  the  hangman's  our  welcoming  host, 
Let  us  think  it  Chianti  and  quaff  it  a-plenty 
While  for  you  I  revise  my  old  toast. 

Let  us  drink  a  new  toast  to  the  dear  Woolen  trust, 

To  the  legions  of  "Country  and  God," 
To  the  great  Christian  cause  and  the  wise,  noble 

laws, 

And  to  all  who  cry  out  for  our  blood ; 
Let  us  drink  to  the  health  of  the  old  Common 
wealth, 

To  the  Bible  and  code  in  one  breath, 
And  let's  so  propitiate  both  the  church  and  the 

state 
That  they'll  grant  us  a  cheerful,  quick  death. 

For  altho'  you  are  brave,  you'll  admit  that  the 

grave 
Has  much  better  surroundings  than  these, 

70 


As  we'll  hear  there  no  more  the  hard  slam  of  the 

door 

And  the  clank  of  the  terrible  keys; 
Even  as  I,  though  I'm  game,  must  admit  just 

the  same, 

When  I  think  of  my  love  and  my  home, 
That  my  heart  is  oppressed  and  my  soul  is  dis 
tressed 
By  the  thought  of  the  years  yet  to  come. 

And  I  cannot  conceive  all  the  years  we  must 

grieve 

For  the  dream  that  no  hope  can  revive, 
And  my  heart  seems  to  sink  when  I  tremblingly 

think 

Of  the  One  who  will  mourn  me  alive: 
For  when  last  I  did  gaze  on  her  sweet,  saint-like 

face, 

That  forever  from  me  would  be  barred, 
Well,  the  only  good  way  I  could  keep  looking  gay 
Was  to  think  of  a  nice  big  graveyard. 

Yes,  I  know  it  is  good,  in   some  soul-stirring 
mood 

To  drive  out  all  these  sullen  complaints, 
And  I  know  it  feels  great  to  believe  that  our  fate 

Will  be  that  of  the  martyrs  and  saints. 
But  what  joy  is  in  truth  if  our  passionate  youth 

Like  an  underground  runnel  must  flow 
That  no  thirst  ever  slakes,  but  just  feeds  the  gray 
lakes 

Of  the  kingdoms  of  silence  and  woe? 

Nay,  'tis  all  silly  fuss,  there's  no  wisdom  in  us 
To  renounce  to  the  brunt  of  the  strife ; 

71 


We  were  wrought  on  the  fire  and  to  love  and 

desire 

And  to  fight  and  to  sing  is  our  life. 
So,  should  we  many  a  year  be  immured  alive  here, 

Now  that  you're  twenty-seven,  old  mate, 
The  best  wish  I  can  make  for  your  own  and  my 

sake 
Is  that  never  you  be  twenty-eight. 

And  so,  here's  to  the  hope  for  the  trap  and  the 
rope 

As  the  best  for  us  sure  is  the  worst, 
And  because  I  am  older  and  you  are  the  bolder, 

Here's  a  health  that  they  hang  me  the  first; 
For,  should  justice  be  shunned,  both  on  earth  and 
beyond, 

After  bidding  to  you  my  farewell, 
I  would  fain  as  your  scout  be  the  first  to  find  out 

And  the  first  to  receive  you  in  hell. 


72 


THE 
SERMON  ON  THE  COMMON 

THEN  it  came  to  pass  that  the  people,  having 
heard  that  he  had  come,  assembled  on  the 
Common  to  listen  unto  his  words. 

And  they  came  from  all  the  parts  of  the  earth,  the 
Syrians  and  the  Armenians,  the  Thracians 
and  the  Tartars,  the  Jews,  the  Greeks  and  the 
Romans,  the  Iberians  and  the  Gauls  and  the 
Angles  and  Huns  and  the  Hibernians  and 
Scythians,  even  from  the  deserts  of  sands  to 
the  deserts  of  ice,  they  came  to  listen  unto 
his  words. 

And  he,  seeing  the  multitudes,  opened  his  mouth, 
and  taught  them,  saying, 

Blessed  are  the  strong  in  freedom's  spirit:  for 
theirs  is  the  kingdom  of  the  earth. 

Blessed  are  they  that  mourn  their  martyred 
dead:  for  they  shall  avenge  them  upon  their 
murderers  and  be  comforted. 

Blessed  are  the  rebels:  for  they  shall  reconquer 
the  earth. 

Blessed  are  they  which  do  hunger  and  thirst  after 
equality:  for  they  shall  eat  the  fruit  of  their 
labor. 

Blessed  are  the  strong:  for  they  shall  not  taste 
the  bitterness  of  pity. 

73 


Blessed  are  the  sincere  in  heart:  for  they  shall 
see  truth. 

Blesed  are  they  that  do  battle  against  wrong: 
for  they  shall  be  called  the  children  of  Liberty. 

Blessed  are  they  which  are  persecuted  for  equal 
ity's  sake:  for  theirs  is  the  glory  of  the  broth 
erhood  of  man. 

Blessed  are  ye  when  the  scribes  of  the  press  shall 
revile  you,  and  the  doctors  of  the  law,  poli 
ticians,  policemen,  judges  and  priests  shall 
call  you  criminals,  thieves  and  murderers  and 
shall  say  all  manner  of  evil  against  you  false 
ly,  for  the  sake  of  Justice. 

Rejoice,  then,  and  be  exceedingly  glad;  for  so 
they  persecuted,  reviled,  cursed,  chained, 
jailed,  poisoned,  hanged,  crucified,  burned, 
beheaded  and  shot  all  the  seers,  the  apostles 
and  the  warriors  of  humanity  that  were  be 
fore  you,  for  the  sake  of  freedom. 

Ye  are  the  power  of  the  earth,  the  foundations 
of  society,  the  thinkers  and  the  doers  of  all 
things  good  and  all  things  fair  and  useful,  the 
makers  and  dispensers  of  all  the  bounties  and 
the  joys  and  the  happiness  of  the  world,  and 
if  ye  fold  your  mighty  arms,  all  the  life  of 
the  world  stands  still  and  death  hovers  on  the 
darkened  abodes  of  man. 

Ye  are  the  light  of  the  world.  There  was  dark 
ness  in  all  the  ages  when  the  torch  of  your 
will  did  not  blaze  forth,  and  the  past  and  the 
future  are  full  of  the  radiance  that  cometh 
from  your  eyes. 

Ye  are  eternal,  even  as  your  father,  labor,  is  eter 
nal,  and  no  power  of  time  and  dissolution  can 
prevail  against  you. 

Ages  have  come  and  gone,  kingdoms  and  powers 

74 


and  dynasties  have  risen  and  fallen,  old  glo 
ries  and  ancient  wisdoms  have  been  turned 
into  dust,  heroes  and  sages  have  been  forgot 
ten  and  many  a  mighty  and  fearsome  god  has 
been  hurled  into  the  lightless  chasms  of  ob 
livion. 
But  ye,  Plebs,  Populace,  People,  Rabble,  Mob, 

Proletariat,  live  and  abide  forever. 

#         #         * 

Think  not  that  I  am  come  to  destroy  the  law:  I 
am  not  come  to  destroy,  but  to  fulfil  through 
you  what  the  prophets  of  mankind  have  pre 
saged  from  the  beginning. 

For  verily  I  say  unto  you,  While  man  lives  and 
labors,  nothing  can  destroy  the  eternal  law 
of  progress  which  after  each  advancing  step 
bids  him  further. 

Therefore,  say  not  unto  yourselves,  even  as  the 
priests  and  scribes  and  doctors  of  the  law  and 
fools  and  hypocrites  say,  This  is  the  goal 
which  was  destined  unto  us  and  no  further 
shall  we  go. 

For  even  if  there  be  before  you  the  uplifted 
arms  of  terror  and  the  smoking  altars  of  mur 
der  enshrined  in  a  gaunt  temple  of  gibbets 
and  fierce  with  shrieks  of  curses,  ye  must  pass 
beyond. 

For  your  feet  are  like  the  unrolling  of  the  end 
less  scrolls  of  time, — not  even  night  and 
silence  and  death  can  stop  their  march  for 
ward  and  upward,  ever  to  a  farther  and  loftier 
goal. 

And,  lo,  ye  shall  never  arrive  because  never  shall 
ye  cease  going. 

Whosoever,  therefore,  shall  break  one  jot  or  one 
tittle  of  this  law  shall  be  called  the  least  in 

75 


the  kingdom  of  man,  but  whosoever  shall  do 
and  teach  it,  the  same  shall  be  called  great  in 
the  kingdom  of  man. 

.Ye  have  heard  that  it  was  said  by  them  of  all 
times  who  toil  not  but  do  live  of  your  toil, 
Thou  shalt  not  rebel  against  thy  master. 

But  I  say  unto  you  that  whosoever  soweth  the 
seeds  of  patience  the  same  shall  reap  the  har 
vest  of  shame. 

They  said  unto  you,  Question  not  the  right  of 
your  masters  to  reign  over  you  and  command 
you.  They  shall  have  your  sweat  and  your 
tears,  aye,  and  even  your  blood  and  your  life, 
and  ye  shall  serve  them  in  reverence  and  awe, 
for  their  power  upon  you  is  of  God. 

And  again  they  said  unto  you,  Give  your  masters 
the  labor  of  your  hands  and  the  worship  of 
your  hearts,  give  them  the  fruits  of  your  or 
chards,  the  grains  of  your  fields,  the  flowers 
of  your  gardens  and  all  things  made  by  the 
labor  of  your  hands  and  by  the  thought  of 
your  brain,  and  withhold  not  aught  from 
your  masters,  lest  your  masters'  law  and  the 
curse  of  your  masters'  God  be  upon  you. 

And  again  they  said  unto  you,  Bend  your  knees 
and  worship  your  chains,  kiss  the  whip  that 
lashes  you,  bless  the  heel  that  crushes  you, 
revere  the  yoke  that  weighs  upon  your  neck, 
bury  your  forehead  in  the  dirt  whence  ye 
came  and  whither  ye  shall  return. 

Do  not  cry,  do  not  complain  do  not  grumble, 
do  not  think,  do  not  hope, 

Be  humble,  resigned,  patient,  submissive,  lowly 
and  prone  even  as  a  beast  of  burden,  lest  ye 
have  the  gaol  in  this  life  and  gehenna  in  the 
life  to  come. 

76 


And  again  they  said  unto  you,  Resist  not  evil, 
for  all  spirit  of  disobedience  and  unsubmis- 
sion  issueth  from  the  enemy  of  peace.  There 
fore  if  your  masters,  or  your  masters'  serv 
ants  smite  you  on  the  right  cheek,  turn  unto 
them  the  other  also,  and  if  they  take  away 
from  you  the  heritage  of  your  fathers,  give 
unto  them  also  the  birthright  of  your  chil 
dren. 

All  this  and  more  than  this  they  said  unto  you 
before  I  came,  but  now  that  I  am  come,  a  new 
evangel  shall  be  proclaimed  unto  you,  that 
your  souls  may  be  renovated  and  purified  in 
the  fire  of  the  new  salvation  which  is  not 
peace  but  war. 

Therefore  I  say  unto  you,  Banish  fear  from  your 
hearts,  dispel  the  mists  of  ignorance  from 
your  minds,  arm  your  yearning  with  your 
strength,  your  vision  with  your  will,  and 
open  your  eyes  and  behold. 

Do  not  moan,  do  not  submit,  do  not  kneel,  do 
not  pray,  do  not  wait. 

Think,  dare,  do,  rebel,  fight— ARISE! 

It  is  not  true  that  ye  are  condemned  to  serve  and 
suffer  in  shame  forever; 

It  is  not  true  that  injustice,  iniquity,  hunger,  mis 
ery,  abjection,  depravity,  hatred,  theft,  mur 
der  and  fratricide  are  eternal ; 

There  is  no  destiny  that  the  will  of  man  cannot 
break ; 

There  are  no  chains  of  iron  that  other  iron  can 
not  destroy; 

There  is  nothing  that  the  power  of  your  arms, 
lighted  by  the  power  of  your  mind,  cannot 
transform  and  reconstruct  and  remake. 

Arise,  then,  ye  men  of  the  plough  and  the  ham- 

77 


mer,  the  helm  and  the  lever,  and  send  forth 
to  the  four  winds  of  the  earth  your  new  proc 
lamation  of  freedom  which  shall  be  the  last 
and  shall  abide  forevermore. 

Through  you,  through  your  united,  almighty 
strength,  order  shall  become  equity,  law  shall 
become  liberty,  duty  shall  become  love  and 
religion  shall  become  truth. 

Through  you  the  man-beast  shall  die  and  the  man 
be  born; 

Through  you  the  dark,  bloody  chronicles  of  the 
brute  shall  cease  and  the  story  of  man  shall 
begin. 

Through  you,  by  the  power  of  your  brain  and 
hand, 

All  the  predictions  of  the  prophets, 
All  the  wisdom  of  the  sages, 
All  the  dreams  of  the  poets, 
All  the  hopes  of  the  heroes, 
All  the  visions  of  the  martyrs, 
All  the  prayers  of  the  saints, 

All  the  crushed,  tortured,  strangled,  maimed  and 
murdered  ideals  of  the  ages,  and  all  the  glori 
ous  destinies  of  mankind  shall  become  a  tri 
umphant  and  everlasting  reality  in  the  name 
of  labor  and  bread  and  love,  the  great  three 
fold  truth  forever. 

And  lo  and  behold,  my  brothers,  this  shall  be 

called  the  revolution. 

*         *         * 

Thus  spake  the  man  to  the  assembled  multitude 
that  had  come  from  all  the  lands,  over  all  the 
waters  of  the  earth,  and  they  listened  unto 
him  and  received  his  words,  and  the  dawn 
began  to  rise  in  their  hearts,  and  they  praised 
the  announcer  with  the  cheers  of  their  mouths 

78 


and  they  blessed  him  with  the  tears  of  their 
eyes. 

But  when  the  multitude  dispersed  to  return  to 
their  labors  and  to  their  strifes,  the  dark  fig 
ures  that  make  darker  the  shadows  of  the 
night  held  council  against  the  truth-bearer  for 
the  words  that  he  had  spoken. 

And  the  scribe  said,  Verily,  he  is  a  law-breaker. 

And  the  money  changer  said,  Aye,  and  he  is  a 
fool. 

And  the  judge  said,  He  is  a  wrong-doer. 

And  the  sage  said,  He  is  possessed  of  a  devil. 

And  the  chronicler  said,  He  is  a  primitive  sinner. 

And  the  wise  man  said,  He  is  a  profligate. 

And  the  priest  said,  He  is  a  blasphemer. 

And  they  all  croaked  in  chorus,  He  is  an  enemy  of 
society,  of  civilization,  of  religion  and  man 
kind.  Law  and  order  must  be  upheld  and  our 
sacred  institutions  must  be  preserved.  We 
must  do  away  with  him. 

And  they  did  away  with  him.  But  nobody  knows 
to  this  day  whether  they  sent  him  to  prison 
or  to  Parliament. 


79 


THE  PEACEFUL  HOUR 

THIS  IS  THE  HOUR  OF  PEACE,  the  hour 

of  all  the  things  I  love. 
The  things  I  love  are  the  things  that  are  my  own 

forever,  the  things  that  shall  never  be  taken 

away  from  me. 
They  are  not  the  things  that  I  have  made,  for 

nothing  have  I  made  to  myself, 
They  are  not  the  things  I  fashioned  with  my 

many-tooled  hands, 
Not  the  things  I  have  brought  forth  out  of  the 

smoke  of  my  pipe,  in  the  gathering  dusk  of 

my  half-closed  eyelids, 
Not  the  things   I  saw  far  away  and   brought 

nearer,  for  no  burden-bearer  and  no  messen 
ger  am  I  to  myself, 
Not  the  things  I  revived,  for  nothing  of  mine  ever 

died, 
But  the  things  that  were  given  to  me,  the  things 

I  wanted  not  and  did  not  ask  and  did  not 

covet,  but  were  simply  given  to  me  unearned 

and  undeserved  because  I  needed  them  and 

knew  it  not. 
For  they  alone  are  forever  my  own,  not  because 

I  must  fight  to  keep  them,  but  because  the 

givers  will  never  take  them  back  from  me. 
I  love  the  black  bread  the  wayfarer  shared  with 

me  at  the  fountain  and  which  I  ate  not  for 

hunger  but  for  the  joy  of  him, 

80 


I  love  the  wine  the  stranger  offered  me  at  the 
tavern  by  the  roadside, 

And  the  tune  of  the  old  hand-organ  under  my 
window, 

And  the  kiss  of  the  two  child-lips  while  I  was 
sleeping, 

And  the  song  of  my  sweetheart  who  is  sewing  in 
the  warm  sunlight, 

And  the  loud  cries  of  my  baby  that  wants  to  be 
fed, 

Yea,  and  that  man  who  is  passing  by  on  the  side 
walk  yonder,  whoever,  whatever  he  be  and 
wherever  he  goes  in  this  hour  of  peace. 


81 


SAMNITE  CRADLE  SONG 

Lullaby,  baby,  mamma's  own  child! 

Who  sang  the  evil  dirge  about  thee? 

Thou  earnest  in  March  time,  wee  as  the  tart 

Berries  of  hedge  thorns,  pale  as  the  wild 

Roses  that  have  a  wasp  in  their  heart. 

Who  has  to  thee  the  witchy  words  spoken? 

Who  read  to  thee  the  malevolent  star? 

Who  cast  on  thee  the  spell  of  the  dead? 

A  hunchbacked  wizard  thy  cradle  has  broken, 

A  lame  old  fairy  embittered  my  teat, 

And  the  blind  priest  with  unblessed  water  wet 

At  the  font  thy  poor,  innocent  head. 

Thou  art  so  sleepy,  but  numb  are  my  arms; 

Thou  art  so  cold,  but  chilled  is  my  breath; 

Thou  art  so  hungry,  but  dry  is  my  breast. 

Lullaby,  hush-a-by,  baby  mine,  rest, 

Sleep  for  thy  mother,  who  is  tired  unto  death. 

Lullaby,  baby!    The  corn  was  so  full, 
The  vines  were  so  heavy,  the  season  so  pleasant, 
And  happy,  so  happy,  the  heart  of  the  peasant, 
Who  was  preparing  and  sweeping  the  bin 
For  the  new  wheat  that  was  bristling  so  fine, 
While  his  nude  youngster  was  laughing  within 
The  casks  he  was  scrubbing  to  fill  with  new  wine. 
But  God  dislikes  them  whose  heart  is  content, 
God  loves  only  them  who  starve  and  bewail; 
And  so  he  sent  us  the  wind  and  the  hail. 

82 


All  has  been  carried  away  by  landslides ; 
All  has  been  buried  beneath  the  brown  mire; 
All  has  been  ruined  by  storms  and  by  tides. 
Nor  vineyards  nor  orchards  the  water  did  leave. 
The  mice  now  dance  in  the  empty  meal  keeve; 
The  ashes  are  cold  of  the  last  cauldron  fire; 
The  dams  and   the  flood-traps  the  torrent  has 
torn; 

And  poor  we!  the  mill  that  once  ground  our  corn 
Now  grinds  away  the  last  hope  of  the  land. 
Lullaby,  baby,  the  morning  is  nigh. 
Hush-a-by,  baby,  thou  must  understand, 
The  tale  of  my  woe  is  as  long  as  thy  cry. 

Lullaby,  baby,  thy  grandfather  plowed 

And  thy  father  mowed  the  grain, 

And  thy  mother  winnowed  the  chaff, 

And  at  evening  many  a  spool 

Spinned  with  spindle  and  distaff, 

Threads  of  hemp  and  threads  of  wool. 

But  granddaddy  was  broken  and  bowed, 

The  land  was  hard,  the  winters  were  cold ; 

But  thy  father  was  twenty  years  old, 

So  they  took  him  away  and  sent  him  to  war. 

One  was  old  and  one  was  young. 

One  was  weak  and  one  was  strong, 

One  was  too  tired  to  till  the  sod, 

One  was  fresh  in  the  heart  of  spring. 

So  thy  grandpa  was  killed  by  God, 

And  thy  daddy  by  the  king. 

Lullaby,  hush-a-by,  baby  mine,  sleep, 
Lullaby,  softer  than  thine  is  their  bed! 

Mother  will  sing  thee,  mother'll  not  weep, 
Mother'll  not  mourn  for  the  dead. 

83 


Lullaby,  baby,  grow  strong  and  brave ! 
They  are  no  longer  hungry  now; 
Only  us  two  the  bad  luck  smote. 
The  gravedigger  took  away  the  goat, 
For  digging  an  eight-foot  grave ; 
The  curate  has  taken  the  sow, 
For  saying  mass  by  the  biers; 
And  the  Government  for  its  toll 
Has  taken  the  earrings  from  mine  ears. 
Lullaby,  baby,  they  took  our  all, 
The  walnut  chest,  the  iron  bed, 
The  silver  brooch,  the  marriage  ring, 
The  black  fichu  in  which  I  was  wed; 
I  have  not  even  a  scarf  to  mourn 
And  honor  my  young  love  forlorn 
And  the  faith  I  swore  to  him. 
I  have  only  the  sack  of  straw, 
The  bident  with  the  broken  horn, 
And  the  medal  which  the  law 
Has  sent  to  thee,  an  iron  thing, 
Which  in  his  honor  bears  the  trace 
Of  his  young  blood  upon  one  face, 
And  on  the  other  side  the  grace 
Of  God  about  our  gracious  king. 

Lullaby,  hush-a-by,  baby  mine,  sleep, 
Lullaby,  softer  than  thine  is  their  bed ! 

Mother  will  sing  thee,  mother'll  not  weep, 
Mother'll  not  mourn  for  the  dead. 

Lullaby,  baby,  the  winter  is  near, 

The  mountains  put  on  their  clean  hood  of  snow. 

What  shall  I  do?    Where  shall  I  go? 

In  the  sieve  there  is  no  more  flour; 

In  the  bin  there  is  no  more  coal; 

In  the  jug  there  is  no  more  oil. 

84 


What  shall  I  do,  my  desperate  soul? 

Am  I  to  die  of  hunger  and  cold, 

Or  beg  for  bread  from  door  to  door, 

Or  be  a  wanton  about  the  inns? 

Ah,  what  do  I  care  what  I  shall  be, 

What  do  I  care,  so  you  do  not  die? 

My  grief  shall  stop  where  your  joy  begins 

And  our  good  day  shall  surely  come  by. 

And  when  it  comes,  and  I  am  in  my  grave 

Or  past  the  age  of  thy  pride  or  blame, 

If  I  keep  true  to  all  that  aid  me, 

Give  back  a  hundred  for  one  they  gave, 

But  if  I  rear  thee  with  sweets  and  with  shame, 

Lullaby,  hush-a-by,  harken,  my  life, 

For  every  dollar  of  silver  they  paid  me, 

Give  back  a  stab  with  your  father's  keen  knife. 

Lullaby,  hush-a-by,  baby  mine,  sleep, 
Lullaby,  softer  than  thine  is  their  bed! 

Mother  will  sing  thee,  mother'll  not  weep, 
Mother'll  not  mourn  for  the  dead. 

Lullaby,  baby,  the  rope  is  so  frayed 
That  down  the  well  soon  the  bucket  will  dart; 
The  whip  is  broken,  the  yoke  torn  in  twain; 
But  see,  how  sharp  is  the  hatchet's  blade! 
The  ass  has  broken  away  from  the  cart, 
The  hound  has  shaken  and  slipped  from  the  chain, 
And  I  am  singing  away  my  fierce  heart 
Just  for  th.e  rage  of  the  song,  not  the  pain. 
Behold,  the  dawn  fingers  the  shadows  dispel, 
Soon  will  the  sun  peep  at  thee  from  the  hill; 
The  cocks  are  crowing,  the  starlings  grow  shrill. 
Wait,  and  my  song  with  the  matin's  glad  bell 
Shall  fill  the  morning  with  omens  of  glee. 
For  now  no  longer  I  sing  unto  thee, 

85 


Mamma's  own  wolflet,  the  tale  of  my  woe, 
But  now  that  the  sun  is  near,  my  man-boy, 
The  night  is  gone,  and  my  sorrows  will  go; 
List  to  my  prophecy,  vengeance  and  joy. 

Lullaby,  baby,  look !    Our  great  king 
With  all  his  princes  and  barons  and  sons, 
Goes  to  the  church  to  pray  to  the  Lord. 
Ring  all  the  bells !    Fire  all  the  guns ! 
For  all  the  chapter  is  wearing  the  cope, 
And  the  bishop  himself  will  sing  the  high  mass. 
How  came  this  vision  to  me,  my  wild  hope? 
How  came  this  wonderful  fortune  to  pass? 
Behold,  the  bishop  lifts  up  the  grail; 
The  king  is  kneeling  upon  the  gray  stone; 
The  trumpets  hush,  the  organ  heaves  deep: 
'  "Te  Deum  laudamus    .    .    .    We  praise  thee,  O 

Lord  .   .   . 

For  all  thy  mercies,  Lord,  hail!  all  hail!" 
Hush-a-by,  lullaby,  listen !    Don't  sleep ! 
Lullaby,  hush-a-by,  mark  well  my  word ! 
Thou  shalt  grow  big.   Don't  tremble!   Don't  fail! 
The  holy  wafer  is  but  kneaded  dough; 
The  king  is  but  flesh  like  the  man  with  the  hoe ; 
The  axe  is  of  iron,  the  same  as  the  sword; 
This  I  do  tell  thee  and  this  I  do  sing. 
And  if  thou  livest  with  sweat  and  with  woe, 
Grow  like  a  man,  not  a  saint,  nor  a  knave; 
Do  not  be  good,  but  be  strong  and  be  brave, 
With  the  fangs  of  a  wolf  and  the  faith  of  a  dog. 
Die  not  the  death  of  a  soldier  or  slave, 
Like  thy  grandfather  who  died  in  a  bog, 
Like  thy  poor  father  who  rots  in  the  rain. 
But  for  this  womb  that  has  borne  thee  in  pain, 
For  these  dry  breasts  thou  hast  tortured  so  long, 
For  the  despair  of  my  life,  my  lost  hope, 

86 


And  for  this  song  of  the  dawn  that  I  sing 
Die  like  a  man  by  the  ax  or  the  rope, 
Spit  on  their  God  and  stab  our  good  king. 

Sleep  no  more,  sleep  no  more!     Show  me  you 

know, 

Show  me  you  listen,  answer  my  sob! 
Drink    my    blood,    drain   my   heart!     Just    one 

sign   .    .    .so! 

Bite  my  breast,  bite  it  harder,  mother's  tiger 
cub! 


87 


THE   CAGE 

IN  THE  MIDDLE  of  the  great  greenish  room 
stood  the  green  iron  cage. 

All  was  old,  and  cold  and  mournful,  ancient  with 
the  double  antiquity  of  heart  and  brain  in  the 
great  greenish  room. 

Old  and  hoary  was  the  man  who  sat  upon  the 
faldstool,  upon  the  fireless  and  godless  altar, 

Old  were  the  tomes  that  mouldered  behind  him 
on  the  dusty  shelves, 

Old  was  the  painting  of  an  old  man  that  hung 
above  him; 

Old  the  man  upon  his  left  who  awoke  with  his 
cracked  voice  the  dead  echoes  of  dead  cen 
turies,  old  the  man  upon  his  right  who  wield 
ed  a  wand ;  and  old  all  those  who  spoke  to  him 
and  listened  to  him  before  and  around  the 
green  iron  cage. 

Old  were  the  words  they  spoke,  and  their  faces 
were  drawn  and  white  and  lifeless,  without 
expression  or  solemnity;  like  the  ikons  of  old 
cathedrals. 

For  of  naught  they  knew,  but  of  what  was  writ 
ten  in  the  old,  yellow  books.  And  all  the  joys 
and  the  pains  and  the  loves  and  hatreds  and 
furies  and  labors  and  strifes  of  man,  all  the 
fierce  and  divine  passions  that  battle  and  rage 
in  the  heart  of  man,  never  entered  into  the 

88 


great  greenish  room  but  to  sit  in  the  green 
iron  cage. 

Senility,  dullness  and  dissolution  were  all  around 
the  green  iron  cage,  and  nothing  was  new  and 
young  and  alive  in  the  great  room,  except  the 
three  men  who  were  in  the  cage. 


Throbbed  and  thundered  and  clamored  and 
roared  outside  of  the  great  greenish  room  the 
terrible  whirl  of  life,  and  most  pleasant  was 
the  hymn  of  its  mighty  polyphony  to  the  lis 
tening  ears  of  the  gods. 

Whirred  the  wheels  of  the  puissant  machines, 
rattled  and  clanked  the  chains  of  the  giant 
cranes,  crashed  the  falling  rocks,  the  riveters 
crepitated  and  glad  and  sonorous  was  the 
rhythm  of  the  bouncing  hammers  upon  the 
loud-throated  anvils. 

Like  the  chests  of  wrathfully  toiling  Titans, 
heaved  and  sniffed  and  panted  the  sweaty 
boilers,  like  the  hissing  of  dragons  sibilated 
the  jets  of  steam,  and  the  sirens  of  the  work 
shops  shrieked  like  angry  hawks  flapping 
above  the  crags  of  a  dark  and  fathomless 
chasm. 

The  files  screeched  and  the  trains  thundered,  the 
wires  hummed,  the  dynamos  buzzed,  the  fires 
crackled;  and  like  a  thunderclap  from  the  cy- 
clopean  forge  roared  the  blasts  of  the  mines. 

Wonderful  and  fierce  was  the  mighty  symphony 
of  the  world,  as  the  terrible  voices  of  metal 
and  fire  and  water  cried  out  into  the  listening 
ears  of  the  gods  the  furious  song  of  human 
toil. 

89 


Out  of  the  chaos  of  sound,  welded  in  the  unison 
of  one  will  to  sing,  rose  clear  and  nimble  the 
divine  accord  of  the  hymn. 

Out  of  the  canons  of  the  mountains, 
Out  of  the  whirlpools  of  the  lakes, 
Out  of  the  entrails  of  the  earth, 
Out  of  the  yawning  gorges  of  hell, 
From  the  land  and  the  sea  and  the  sky 
And  from  whatever  comes  bread  and 

wealth  and  joy, 

And  from  the  peaceful  abodes  of  men  rose  ma 
jestic  and  fierce,  louder  than  the  roar  of  the 
volcano  and  the  bellow  of  the  typhoon,  the 
anthem  of  human  labor  to  the  fatherly  justice 
of  the  Sun. 

But  in  the  great  greenish  room  there  was  nothing 
but  the  silence  of  dead  centuries  and  of  ears 
that  listen  no  more;  and  none  heard  the 
mighty  call  of  life  that  roared  outside,  save 

the  three  men  who  were  in  the  cage. 
*         *         * 

All  the  good  smells,  the  wholesome  smells,  the 
healthy  smells  of  life  and  labor  were  outside 
the  great  room. 

The  smell  of  rain  upon  the  grass  and  of  the  flow 
ers  consumed  by  their  love  for  the  stars; 

The  heavy  smell  of  smoke  that  coiled  out  of  myr 
iads  of  chimneys  of  ships  and  factories  and 
homes, 

The  dry  smell  of  sawdust  and  the  salty  smell  of 
the  iron  filings ; 

The  odor  of  magazines  and  granaries  and  ware 
houses,  the  kingly  smell  of  argosies  and  the 
rich  scent  of  market  places,  so  dear  to  the 
women  of  the  race; 

The  smell  of  new  cloth  and  new  linen,  the  smell 

90 


of  soap  and  water,  and  the  smell  of  newly 
printed  paper, 

The  smell  of  grains  and  hay  and  the  smell  of 
stables,  the  warm  smell  of  cattle  and  sheep 
that  Virgil  loved ; 

The  smell  of  milk  and  wine  and  plants  and 
metals, 

And  all  the  good  odors  of  the  earth  and  of  the 
sea  and  of  the  sky,  and  the  fragrance  of  fresh 
bread,  sweetest  aroma  of  the  world,  and  the 
smell  of  human  sweat,  most  holy  incense  to 
the  divine  nostrils  of  the  gods,  and  all  the 
Olympian  perfumes  of  the  heart  and  the  brain 
and  the  passions  of  men  were  outside  of  the 
great  greenish  room. 

But  within  the  old  room  there  was  nothing  but 
the  smell  of  old  books  and  the  dust  of  things 
decayed,  and  the  suffocated  exhalations  of  old 
graves,  and  the  ashen  odor  of  dissolution  and 
death. 

Yet  all  the  sweetness  of  all  the  wholesome  odors 
of  the  world  outside  was  redolent  in  the  breath 

of  the  three  men  in  the  cage. 
#         #         # 

Like  crippled  eagles  fallen  were  the  three  men  in 
the  cage,  and  like  little  children  who  look  into 
a  well  to  behold  the  sky  were  the  men  that 
looked  down  upon  them. 

No  more  would  they  rise  to  their  lofty  eyries, 
no  more  would  they  soar  above  the  snow 
capped  mountains — yet,  tho'  their  pinions 
were  broken,  nothing  could  dim  the  fierce 
glow  of  their  eyes  that  knew  all  the  altitudes 
of  heaven. 

Strange  it  was  to  behold  the  men  in  the  cage 
while  life  clamored  outside,  and  strange  it 

91 


seemed  to  them  that  they  should  be  there  be 
cause  of  what  dead  men  had  written  in  old 
books. 

So  of  naught  did  they  think  but  of  the  old  books 
and  the  green  cage. 

Thought  they:  "All  things  are  born,  grow,  decay, 
die  and  are  forgotten.  Surely  all  that  is  in 
this  room  will  pass  away.  But  what  will  en 
dure  the  longer,  the  folly  that  was  written 
into  the  old  books  or  the  madness  that  was 
beaten  into  the  bands  of  this  cage? 

"Which  of  these  two  powers  has  enthralled  us, 
the  thought  of  the  dead  men  who  wrote  the 
old  books,  or  the  labor  of  living  men  who 
have  wrought  this  cage?" 

Long  and  intently  they  thought,  but  they  found 
no  answer. 

*         *         * 

But  one  of  the  men  in  the  cage,  whose  soul  was 
tormented  by  the  fiercest  fire  of  hell,  which  is 
the  yearning  after  the  Supreme  Truth,  spoke 
and  said  unto  his  comrades: 

"Aye,  brothers,  all  things  die  and  pass  away,  yet 
nothing  is  truly  and  forever  dead  until  each 
one  of  the  living  has  thrown  a  regretless 
handful  of  soil  into  its  grave. 

"Many  a  book  has  been  written  since  these  old 
books  were  written,  and  many  a  proverb  of 
the  sage  has  become  the  jest  of  the  fool,  yet 
this  cage  still  stands  as  it  stood  for  number 
less  ages. 

"What  is  it,  then,  that  made  it  of  metal  more  en 
during  than  the  printed  word? 

"Which  is  its  power  to  hold  us  here? 

"Brothers,  it  is  the  things  we  love  that  enslave  us, 

92 


"Brothers,  it  is  the  things  we  yearn  for  that  sub 
due  us. 

"Brothers,  it  is  not  hatred  for  the  things  that  are, 
but  love  for  the  things  that  are  to  be  that  make 
us  slaves. 

"And  what  man  is  more  apt  to  become  a  thrall, 
brothers,  and  to  be  locked  in  a  green  iron  cage, 
than  he  who  yearns  the  most  for  the  Supreme 
of  the  things  that  are  to  be — he  who  most 
craves  for  Freedom? 

"And  what  subtle  and  malignant  power,  save  this 
love  of  loves,  could  be  in  the  metal  of  this  cage 
that  it  is  so  mad  to  emprison  us?" 

So  spoke  one  of  the  men  to  the  other  two,  and 
then,  out  of  the  silence  of  the  aeons  spoke  into 
his  tormented  soul  the  metallic  soul  of  the 

cage. 

*         *         * 

"Iron,  the  twin  brother  of  fire,  the  first  born  out 
of  the  matrix  of  the  earth,  the  witness  ever 
lasting  to  the  glory  of  thy  labor  am  I,  O  Man ! 

"Nor  for  this  was  I  meant,  O  Man!  Not  to  em- 
prison  thee,  but  to  set  thee  free  and  sustain 
thee  in  thy  strife  and  in  thy  toil. 

"I  was  to  lift  the  pillars  of  the  Temple  higher 
than  the  mountains ; 

"I  was  to  break  down  and  bore  through  all  the 
barriers  of  the  world  to  open  the  way  to  thy 
triumphant  chariot. 

"All  the  treasures  and  all  the  bounties  of  the  earth 
was  I  to  give  as  an  offering  into  thy  hands, 
and  all  its  forces  and  powers  to  bring  chained 
like  crouching  dogs  at  thy  feet. 

"Hadst  thou  not  sinned  against  the  nobility  of 
my  nature  and  my  destiny,  hadst  thou  not 
humiliated  me,  an  almighty  warrior,  to  be- 

93 


come  the  lackey  of  gold,  I  would  have  never 
risen  against  thee  and  enslaved  thee,  O  Man! 
"While  I  was  hoe  and  ploughshare  and  sword  and 
axe  and  scythe  and  hammer,  I  was  the  first 
artificer  of  thy  happiness ;  but  the  day  I  was 
beaten  into  the  first  lock  and  the  first  key,  I 
became  fetters  and  chains  to  thy  hands  and 
thy  feet,  O  Man ! 

"My  curse  is  thy  curse,  O  Man,  and  even  if  thou 
shouldst  pass  out  of  the  wicket  of  this  cage, 
never  shalt  thou  be  free  until  thou  returnest 
me  to  the  joy  of  labor. 

"O  Man,  bring  me  back  into  the  old  smithy,  puri 
fy  me  again  with  the  holy  fire  of  the  forge, 
lay  me  again  on  the  mother  breast  of  the  an 
vil,  beat  me  again  with  the  old  honest  hammer 
— O  Man,  remould  me  with  thy  wonderful 
hands  into  an  instrument  of  thy  toil, 

Remake  of  me  the  sword  of  thy  justice, 
Remake  of  me  the  tripod  of  thy  worship, 
Remake  of  me  the  sickle  for  thy  grain, 
Remake  of  me  the  oven  for  thy  bread, 
And  the  andirons  for  thy  peaceful  hearth, 

O  Man! 

And  the  trestles  for  the  bed  of  thy  love, 
O  Man! 

And  the  frame  of  thy  joyous  lyre,  O  Man !" 
*         *  "      * 

Thus  spake  to  one  of  the  three  men,  out  of  the 
silence  of  centuries,  the  metallic  soul  of  the 
cage. 

And  he  listened  unto  its  voice,  and  while  it  was 
still  ringing  in  his  soul — which  was  tormented 
by  the  fiercest  fire  of  hell,  which  is  the  yearn 
ing  after  the  supreme  truth  (Is  it  Death?  Is 
it  Love?) — there  arose  one  man  in  the  silent 

94 


assembly  of  old  men  that  were  around  the 
iron  cage. 

And  that  man  was  the  most  hoary  of  all,  and 
most  bent  and  worn  and  crushed  was  he  under 
the  heavy  weight  of  the  great  burden  he  bore 
without  pride  and  without  joy. 

He  arose  and  addressing  himself — I  know  not 
whether  to  the  old  man  that  sat  on  the  black 
throne,  or  to  the  old  books  that  were  moulder 
ing  behind  him,  or  to  the  picture  that  hung 
above  him — he  said  (and  dreary  as  a  wind 
that  moans  through  the  crosses  of  an  old 
graveyard  was  his  voice)  : 

"I  will  prove  to  you  that  these  three  men  in  the 
cage  are  criminals  and  murderers  and  that 
they  ought  to  be  put  to  death." 

Love,  it  was  then  that  I  heard  for  the  first  time 
the  creak  of  the  moth  that  was  eating  the  old 
painting  and  the  old  books,  and  the  worm 
that  was  gnawing  the  old  bench,  and  it  was 
then  that  I  saw  that  all  the  old  men  around 
the  great  greenish  room  were  dead. 

They  were  dead  like  the  old  man  in  the  painting, 
save  that  they  still  read  the  old  books  he  could 
read  no  more,  and  still  spoke  and  heard  the 
old  words  he  could  speak  and  hear  no  more, 
and  still  passed  the  judgment  of  the  dead, 
which  he  no  more  could  pass,  upon  the  mighty 
life  of  the  world  outside  that  throbbed  and 
thundered  and  clamored  and  roared  the  won 
derful  anthem  of  human  labor  to  the  fatherly 
justice  of  the  Sun. 


95 


THE    LAST   ORACLE 

TO    ANNE    SULLIVAN    MACY 

Teacher  of  Helen  Keller 


THE  LAST  ORACLE 

I 

Teacher,  I  who  have  sought  in  my  fierce  youth 
In  many  an  ancient  scroll  of  obscure  lore 
The  key-word  to  the  dark,  Medusean  door 
Behind  which,  on  the  grave  of  fear,  stands  truth ; 

And  in  my  restless  quest  and  desolate 
The  chariots  of  my  warrior  heart  I  drove, 
Hurling  in  vain  the  rams  of  faith  and  love 
Against  the  terrors  of  the  mighty  gate, 

I  knew  not  that  the  wisdom  of  this  age 
Had  even  now  the  fearful  shrine  unlocked, 
Until,  wayfarer  of  the  world,  I  knocked 
At  thy  remote  and  peaceful  hermitage. 

'Twas  not  the  house  of  Silence,  though  no  sound 
Heard  I  within  the  lofty  colonnade, 
And  yet  meseemed  that  somewhere  in  the  shade, 
Something  did  stir,  indefinite,  profound; 

Something    that    shook    and    tore    the    deepest 

strings 

Of  my  stout  heart — a  Voice  that  only  says 
And  does  not  speak,  above  the  world's  byways, 
Dolorous  like  the  beat  of  broken  wings. 


'Twas  not  the  house  of  Darkness,  yet,  though 

faint, 

No  worldly  light  I  saw,  but  what  did  seem 
The  haze  that  lights  at  night  the  placid  dream 
Of  children  and  the  vision  of  the  saint. 

Therein  stood  I  as  he  whose  trembling  lips 
The  last  deep  message  of  his  prayer  has  said, 
And  fearfully  awaits  with  drooping  head 
The  blare  of  the  supreme  apocalypse. 

Yet  asked  I  not  to  see  for  the  wan  wraith 

Of  my  wild  youth  that  all  the  roads  had  tried, 

Not  for  the  sorrows  of  the  Crucified, 

Nor  for  the  works  of  my  all-suffering  faith ; 

But  for  the  One  who  waits  earth-bound  in  chains 
The  greater  flame  of  his  first  conquered  spark, 
To  gain  back,  if  he  leap  from  out  the  dark, 
The  crown  that  heaven  has  stolen  from  his  do 
mains; 

For  Him  I  asked  whose  rebel  soul  was  hurled 
Into  the  deepest  pit  of  burning  fire, 
Yet  never  ceased  to  battle  and  conspire 
To  render  back  to  cheated  Man  his  world ; 

And  for  the  One  upon  whose  back  the  yoke 
And  the  feast  tables  of  old  Croesus  stand, 
And  by  the  power  of  whose  almighty  hand, 
Teacher,  the  seals  that  sealed  the  gate  you  broke. 

II 

I  felt  not  sad,  nor  yet  did  I  rejoice. 
My  life  retreated  to  its  last  recess, 
And  then,  from  out  the  unfathomed  nothingness 
I  heard  the  answer  of  the  loneliest  Voice. 

100 


The  Voice  that  thou  hast'ntpulded;witii>tlTy/xieft 
And  learned  hands  of  loVe  and  firmly  struck  • 
Not  in  ignoble  clay,  but  in  the  rock 
That  tides  and  bolts  has  braved,  unmoved,  un- 
cleft. 

The  Voice  thou  didst  reclaim  from  out  the  still 
Empire  whose  gate  no  one  before  thee  shook, 
The  Voice  that  has  belied  the  crafty  book, 
Man's  destinies  to  sing  and  to  fulfill. 

Said  She:  "My  world  is  wider  than  the  strength 
Of  thy  sharp  eyes  can  girdle  and  surround, 
For  in  my  night  in  which  I  see  no  bound, 
I  cannot  walk  the  fulness  of  its  length. 

"But  thou  who  canst  behold  and  dost  respond 
Often  unto  the  lures  that  guile  thy  soul, 
No  farther  than  thy  gaze  shalt  make  thy  goal 
And  pitch  thy  tent  where  started  I  beyond. 

"For  I  no  greater  obstacles  can  meet 
Than  this,  the  voiceless  dark  which  I  explore, 
And  yet,  how  loud,  like  the  sea's  surging  roar, 
I  hear  the  sunward  march  of  countless  feet. 

"They  go  with  me  and  I  with  them.    But  where, 
They  know  not  nor  I  cannot  signify, 
Oh,  if  I  could  but  find  the  voice  to  cry 
For  me,  the  eyes  to  see,  the  ears  to  hear. 

"If  I  could  find  the  one  to  sally  forth, 
My  vision  and  his  strength  their  foes  would  rout, 
And  clear  the  way  for  them  and  lead  them  out 
Of  bondage  to  the  gardens  of  the  earth. 

101 


"Whom -shall  I  -sejd?  My  heart  has  grown  un 
steady 

In  its  long  quest." — I  bowed  my  head  in  pain. . . 

Then  in  its  battle  armor  leaped  again 

My  warrior  heart  and  answered:  "Send  me. 
Lady!" 


Ill 

Send  me !    Whatever  in  thy  watchful  night 
Thou  blessest,  I  shall  blazon  in  the  morn, 
And  what  thou  cursest  with  thy  withering  scorn 
Into  the  conquered  ditches  I  shall  smite. 

Send  me,  send  me!     Thy  words  shall  sear  and 

cleave 

Like  trails  of  mighty  armies  through  the  land, 
For  thou  alone  canst  see  and  understand 
The  destiny  we  only  can  achieve. 

For  though  we  had  the  truth,  the  tool,  the  word 
To  pit  against  our  foemen's  lies  and  gold, 
No  sacred  name  had  we  to  stand  and  hold 
Against  the  One  whose  cross  has  shaped  their 
sword ; 

The  One  who  sanctified  their  holocaust, 
Whose  words  of  peace  our  holy  war  have  cursed, 
Whose  blood  our  red  ensigns  has  not  aspersed 
But  filled  the  goblets  of  their  drunken  lust. 

Aye,  we  were  stronger,  we  whose  soul  is  wrought 
Upon  the  fire  and  made  with  flame  and  ash, 
Yet  by  the  power  of  that  One  name  the  clash 
They  stayed  of  our  invincible  onslaught. 

102 


But  now  thy  lightless  eyes  that  overpass 
The  girdle  of  our  vaster  battle-field, 
Shall  break  the  charm  of  their  enchanted  shield 
And  pierce  the  strongest  steel  of  their  cuirass. 

Henceforth  thy  word  into  the  cannon  bronze 
We  cast,  our  new  commandments  to  proclaim ; 
Thou  art  the  Vestal  of  the  greatest  flame, 
Thou  art  the  Sybil  of  the  last  response. 

And  when  their  Christ  they  conjure  to  condone 
Their  deeds  of  blood,  our  sins  of  love  by  thee 
Shall  be  dispersed — a  higher  Calvary 
Thou  didst  ascend  to  suffer  and  atone. 

IV 

And  lo!  as  thou  hast  seen  it,  it  shall  be. 
One  day  we  shall  relight  our  bivouac  fires 
Upon  the  embattled  streets  of  our  grandsires 
And  swear  once  more  to  die  or  to  be  free. 

One  day  our  bleeding,  ever  plodding  feet, 
Lit  by  the  torch  of  love,  shall  stop  before 
The  House  of  Greed,  and  hard  upon  the  door, 
Clenched  in  our  fist  the  scythe  of  Time  shall  beat. 

Two  messengers  that  day  shall  pass  the  gate, 
One,  white-clad,  who  shall  bear  the  salt  and  bread 
Of  peace,  and  One  who  cloaked  in  gory  red 
Shall  bring  the  everlasting  doom  of  hate. 

Thou  shalt  be  first,  and  say  (for  thou  shalt  live 
Till  then,  thou  who  hast  known  no  mortal  sin) : 
"Your  brother  stands  without,  let  him  come  in 
And  all  your  great  misdeeds  he  will  forgive. 

103 


"Your  brother  whom  you  cast  away  to  roam 
In  misery  and  shame  and  toilsome  woe, 
Comes  back  in  arms,  and  yet  not  like  a  foe, 
But  like  a  guest  he  will  re-enter  home. 

''Open  your  door,  receive  him  at  your  hearth, 
Break  bread  with   him  and  he  shall  break  his 

sword, 

And  from  this  day  the  kingdom  of  the  Lord 
Be  evermore  established  on  the  earth." 

Thus  shalt  thou  say.    But  if  his  heart  of  guilt 
Be  hardened,  then  the  Somber  One  whose  brow 
Is  seared  by  all  the  fires  and  ne'er  did  bow 
Shall  come  forth,  both  his  hands  upon  the  hilt. 

'Twill  not  be  I,  but  one  in  whom  my  breath 
Will  pass  before  I  die;  for  to  my  Dream 
I  ask  no  guerdon  but  this  gift  supreme, 
The  beauty  of  the  battle  and  of  death. 

"Harken!''  he'll  say.     "In  vain  we  begged  your 

dole, 

For  mercy,  for  the  common  bond  of  blood, 
For  love  of  man,  for  fear  of  your  own  god, 
For  the  salvation  of  your  deathless  soul. 

"We  served  you,  fed  you,  housed  you,  cheered 

or  wept 

When  you  were  glad  or  sad;  when  sick  we  nursed 
You  back  to  health;  your  foes  we  fought  and 

cursed, 
We  watched  your  gold,  we  labored  while  you 

slept. 

104 


"We  mourned  your  dead,  we  blessed  your  chil 
dren's  name, 

We  gave  to  you  our  sweat,  our  tears,  our  lives, 
The  virtue  of  our  daughters  and  our  wives, 
Our  share  of  heav'n,  our  hoary  mothers'  shame. 

"Always  unfelt,  unseen,  ununderstood, 
Our  love  for  you  all  suffered  and  forgave. 
When  you  did  strike  us,  we  acclaimed  you  brave; 
When  you  despised  our  lives,  we  hailed  you  good. 

"Nothing  we  claimed  and  little  did  we  beg; 

Bereft  of  all,  in  famine,  old,  diseased, 

After    your    dogs    were    filled,    and    when    you 

pleased, 
We  asked  to  have  the  offal  and  the  dreg. 

"We  only  asked  enough  to  live — not  this, 
Your  life,  but  just  to  toil  and  not  to  die: 
A  loaf,  a  bed,  a  rag,  a  sheltered  sty, 
Your  god  to  worship  and  your  hand  to  kiss. 

"No  more  we  asked.    But,  lo,  you  heard  us  not, 
You  drove  us  from  your  kennels  and  you  grinned 
When  in  the  cold,  the  snow,  the  rain,  the  wind, 
You  damned  our  souls  to  hell,  our  flesh  to  rot. 

"You  drove  our  babes  to  starve,  the  strong  to 

drink, 

The  weak  to  beg,  our  famished  girls  to  fill 
The  charnels  of  your  stews,  our  sons  to  kill 
For  bread  and  work  .    .   .  and  all  of  us  to  think ! 

"And  so  we  thought.     Behold  the  morning  hour, 
Your  last,  the  crimson  dawn  that  drives  the  fogs. 
We  have  come  back,  not  like  a  pack  of  dogs 
That  to  new  bones  and  an  old  whip  will  cower, 

105 


"Not  like  a  drove  of  cattle  which  the  knife 
Can  silence  and  the  rope  can  yoke  and  bind, 
But  like  the  first  vanguard  of  humankind 
That  comes  into  its  heritage  of  life. 

"We  ask  no  more  for  work,  for  love,  for  bread. 
We  are  the  stronger  now,  we  bring  no  peace. 
Monster,  your  hour  is  struck,  get  on  your  knees, 
We    come   not   for   your   gold — we   want    your 
head!" 


106 


TO  THE  ONE  WHO  WAITS 

No!   Whether  a  sob  or  a  song, 

While  love  shall  life's  battles  endure, 

While  you  in  my  will  shall  be  strong 
And  I  in  your  faith  shall  be  pure, 

While  both  have  to  weep,  but  our  soul 
Knows  not  what  is  doubt  or  despair, 

While  happiness  be  not  our  goal, 
But  simply  the  way  to  get  there; 

While  after  each  loss  we  are  trying 
Again,  though  we  never  achieve, 

And,  mocked  at  and  wounded  and  dying, 
We  still  shall  persist  and  believe, 

While  after  each  stormy  nightfall 
More  radiant  each  sunrise  will  seem, 

And  while,  after  having  lost  all, 

Remain  you  and  I  and  the  Dream — 

Even  though  all  the  world  shall  adverse  us, 
Though  all  our  destruction  acclaim, 

And  priests  in  God's  name  shall  accurse  us, 
And  fools  in  humanity's  name; 

Though  all  our  old  comrades  we  lose, 
And  each  of  our  friends  turn  a  knave, 

And  some  pull  the  hangman's  red  noose, 
And  all  help  to  dig  us  a  grave, 

107 


Still  this  unto  you  will  I  tell, 

That  no  man,  no  scaffold,  no  jail, 

No  powers  of  heaven  and  hell 
Against  you  and  me  shall  prevail ! 


108 


LOAFfPERlODl 
HOMEJSE 


FORM  NO.  DD6 


o 
BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


YC1563S9 


